Growing up, we see our parents as gods. They are larger than life, full of immeasurable strength and wisdom. We want nothing more than to please them, and for them to love us no matter what.

One of the biggest, perhaps even devastating, truths we eventually learn is that they are just as human as we are: weak, foolish, fallible.

And hypocrites.

Even so, we continue to maintain high expectations of our parents as we grow up and perhaps raise children of our own. That includes them having the honesty, kindness, wisdom, and integrity (among others) they tried to instill into us.

My parents are no exception.

Yet I couldn’t love them more, because they also taught both my sister and me to be strong, independent, intelligent, and wise.

That’s not to say there are no regrets, or wishes that some things could have been different.

When I was about thirteen, one of my assignments was to turn in an essay for my english class. I kept putting it off (as I’m still wont to do). When my mom asked about it, I told her that it wasn’t yet due. Don’t ask me why I lied, because to this day I have no idea. Other than perhaps not wanting to be lectured for being late on an assignment.

Well, not a few days later, she found out that I had lied, that it was indeed overdue. She was so furious, she kicked a hole in the wall. I spent the next three days moving firewood from one side of the house to the other.

I thought the punishment was more than a little unfair, because it was during Memorial Day weekend, and I couldn’t go to the lake for swimming and boating and bbq-ing. I was stuck moving wood while everyone else was out having fun.

I learned my lesson well, though. I never again lied to my mom (well, mostly, but that’s another story).

You can understand, then, that because my mom appreciated honesty, I expected her to be just as honest with me.

One thing she kept from both my sister and me was the truth about her past. She always kept her life secret. And not only her past. For instance, she suffered significant health issues, and she didn’t tell anyone until she ended up in the hospital after a minor heart attack.

She claimed she kept it to herself because she didn’t want to worry anyone. My sister and I being a lot like her, however, we knew the real reason: she didn’t want to be seen as weak. She always feared any sign of weakness meant people would take advantage of or harm her.

That attitude hurt, because her reticence to talk about her struggles in life, past and present, meant she didn’t trust my sister and me not to hurt her. Which we never would have.

My biological dad just finished writing a memoir, and he was kind enough to share it with me and for me to give him my thoughts (this may seem like a change of subject, but it’s not).

I had to stop at chapter 5, because I wanted to cry. Not because of any great and painful revelation, but because of his willingness to share his life with his daughter in all of its ugliness and beauty.

An honesty my mom instilled in her children, yet failed to live by herself. While I do regret her inability to share, I don’t hold it against her. Much of her past formed her that way, and some habits are incredibly difficult to break. A big one is to open up and trust someone not to hurt you when you’ve been hurt by so many before.

In my dad’s memoir, I finally received some honesty I’ve always longed for from a parent.

How could I not weep in gratitude for it?