I don't often think about my mother, to be honest. For new people here, I'm estranged from my family of origin, and my mother's choices and the way she treated me is a large part of that.

Most of the time, if I do talk about her, its in therapy, providing some context or a reason for a pattern or a feeling.

But the other day, I remembered a small memory, a joke we shared once, and I smiled. It was genuine, a remembrance of a happy moment in time.

My first response to this was mild panic. As if this meant I was on the road back to reconciliation, even though I don't want that. I was concerned that if I shared this, or even dwelt on this, I would feel obliged to re-establish contact and open my life to her once more.