Warning: references to infant death.

I’d been naive in thinking I could share absolutely everything with my daughters. I’d learned that there were several things I didn’t want my daughters to know about me, things they might see as a weakness, things that would make me seem vulnerable. Sure, I might tell them some things one day when they were old enough to understand, but that would be once they’d lived a little. By then they would’ve learned how different the world had been when I was their age from the world they currently knew.

Mum once said to me, “It’s not easy at first. Keeping secrets or not telling them takes time to get used to, but it becomes routine after a while. You have to consider what would be worth sharing at what time. There are some things they aren’t ready for, and you have to realize when the right time is to tell them.

“You have to understand that it’s fine to keep some secrets. Mothers can’t share absolutely everything with their daughters. At least save some stories for the women they’ll become. It’ll be their reward for putting up with you all those years,” she joked. “They’ll understand when the time comes. Hopefully.”

She was telling me that all mothers could do was hope. Hope that you raised your daughters well enough that even if they resent you for not sharing everything they’ll understand and accept why.

As far as mothers go I think Mum did a pretty good job.

She’d survived a world war as a daughter who was destined to become a mother. She hadn’t let her horrifying experiences taint my childhood at all. She’d also given parts of herself away so that I could be born. She married my Dad, converted to his faith, all so they could have a chance at happiness. And stronger still, she was, moving forward after losing her first child.

It’s these kinds of suffering that shape a woman, transforming her from girl to woman, daughter to mother. These were things that she knew she might have to explain to me one day, so until then she’d keep them hidden away to be strong enough to send me out into the world. Then, when I’d lived a little and gathered the courage to ask her about the past she’d be able to end her years of silence.

We still talk about it sometimes, the war, marriage, and difficulties of being a mother. We talk one on one, mother to daughter, mother to mother. Enough time has passed that Mum’s less afraid of being feeling vulnerable, a process which she now helps me through with my own daughters.

She’s taught me that there will come a time in the future when I’ll have these conversations with my children. I’ll keep some things from them that they shouldn’t hear until they're older. I’ll have to tuck some things away to stay strong for their sakes. I’ll have to endure any resentment they’ll have toward me for the things left unsaid. Then all I can do is pray that I’ve raised them right, at least so they understand that what they’ve seen as a weakness has been my strength.

That in my silence I’ve learned what it means to become a mother.