The Bad Lady had taken her away from her mother and home, unceremoniously dumping her in this institution. It was not a happy place, this boarding school-come-orphanage – the nuns were strict and quick to punish, some more cruelly than others, and often targeting the child for having had the audacity to be born out of wedlock. She had no one to comfort her, nurture her, or love her. 

It would be some time before the child learnt the shocking truth about the Bad Lady. But the truth, when she did finally learn it, did not set her free, it did the opposite. The child was my mother, Elia, and the Bad Lady was, in fact, her mother, my grandmother – Irma. 

The real reason Irma took my mother from Isernia, her hometown in Italy, only to abandon her in a loveless institution, is unclear; we can only guess that it was the most convenient solution for everyone. Everyone except my mother, of course. While Elia did have the occasional visit home to Isernia, it was always made clear that she must return to the institution. And although she felt loved by the woman she now knew was her grandmother, Angelina, there was never any suggestion that Angelina wanted to keep her home.

Like many abandoned children, my mother grew up yearning to connect with her parent who remained a constant yet absent presence. She hoped to win her over somehow – perhaps if she was the perfect child, obedient and studious, Irma could be moved to take her back? But my mother’s inherently rebellious nature and her poor academic performance not only drew the violent ire of the nuns, but apparently, the continued disdain of her mother. Irma was not likely to be moved by anything. 

By the time Elia was released on her own recognisance at the age of 21, in the early 1960s, it was a strange and loose new world she was entering, one completely foreign to her and not a little bit daunting. Cloistered within the walls of the religious institution, her life had revolved around servitude and prayer. She had formed neither friends nor the skills for making them, she was unfamiliar with the complexities of human relationships, and was naïve in the ways of the modern world.

Despite allowing Elia to be of service to her in doing menial household chores, Irma would never acknowledge her publicly as her daughter. Elia was not to call her mother and, if asked, Irma would always say that Elia was a friend. Even years later, when, as a child, we took a family trip to Italy to visit relatives, my grandmother openly denounced us as her grandchildren, accusing us of calling her “grandmother” because that’s what children called all old people. 

After leaving the institution, my mother did a short stint as a novice nun (ironically), but soon realised it was not her calling and instead found a placement as a nanny. It was a convenient solution given that it provided her with lodgings and meals, as well as a small income, not to mention Sundays free to do as she pleased. But to Irma, Elia’s newfound independence was unsatisfactory. Now that Elia was out of the institution, Irma felt the burden of responsibility for this unwanted daughter squarely back on her shoulders, and it would not do.

The only way to finally make Elia someone else’s responsibility, once and for all, was to marry her off. And so, unbeknownst to my mother, Irma signed Elia up to a marital agency. Within a short time, my mother started receiving male callers at her residence, which was also her place of work. She couldn’t explain the unwanted advances but to avoid causing problems with her employer, my mother accepted the occasional appointment.

It was in this manner that she met my father. Of all the callers, and there weren’t that many, my father was not only the most persistent but also the most suitable. My mother was in her late 20s by this stage. Her future prospects did not look promising – in those days, a single woman of meagre means and no family support had little hope of security or stability. For my mother, as for most women, the only option was marriage. Best it be with a man who was gentle, unassuming and willing to take her as she was. Love would come eventually...hopefully.

My mother never did get the one thing she desired most above anything else; the acceptance, if not love, of her mother.

Except…

In February 1998, our home phone rang with a call from Italy. It was my mother’s cousin to tell her that Irma was fading away and that it would be best if she returned to Italy as soon as possible. My mother made hasty arrangements and flew out within a couple of days. Landing in Rome, with no time to waste, they drove my mother directly to the public hospice where my grandmother had been a dementia patient for the last five years. Entering the room, my mother found her cousin sitting next to a frail but conscious Irma.

“Do you know who this is?” mum’s cousin asked Irma.

“Yes.” Said the old woman. “That’s my daughter.”

Irma passed away 20 minutes later.

…to be continued…