That's how old she would be today. She was born Marie Therese, but that's not the name I knew her by. She changed it in the fifties to the name I recognized. As a matter of fact, I never knew of Marie Therese until after her husband died, and I was checking the birth, marriage, and death documents.

The name I knew her best by was Mommy. Her husband was Daddy.

She died in 1991, aged 47 years and 9 months. She weighed only a pound for each year of her life.

Daddy called her Honey, and that was the song that was sung at her funeral. I still can't listen to that damn song.

I don't know what to say about a woman I was too old to love unconditionally, and too young to understand. I was 14. My sole purpose in life at that age was to hate my parents, and I did it well. So I never got to know her. I never got to learn her secrets - not from her, at least. And as I found out later, there were definitely secrets.

So what did I know about her? Well, she was short. Five foot even. She died her hair so often that even she forgot what the natural color was. She almost never wore make-up. She couldn't swim. She had 16 sisters and 4 brothers; said she was part of "the last half dozen". She was from New Brunswick. Her command of the english language was atrocious, but she could shoot the eyes out of a squirrel at 50 paces. She was frequently stung by bees - Dad said this was due to her sweetness. She didn't laugh - she giggled.

And since she died half my life ago, I have had nearly a thousand nightmares that she's trying to kill me. She's a monster, a villain. She scares the hell out of me. I don't talk about her much - I was my father's child.

I loved her when she was alive. I cared for her when she was dying. I grieved when she left us. I screamed when I dreamed of her killing me. And then, over time and with the help of others, I began to learn about her. And I began to hate the woman my father had put on a rose-bedecked pedestal. I hated her because she lied. I hated her because I wasn't the child she wanted. I hated her because when she looked at me, she saw someone else. I hated her because she left. Now, I walk the fine line between love and hate for her.

Happy birthday, Mommy.