My mother always said "I love you" whenever she said goodbye on the phone, left the house or just left a room. I had grown up around it and never thought much about her saying it all the time. It wasn't till I was older I realized that a lot of people don't consider it much of a normal thing. One of my friends said his parents seldom uttered the three words to him, while another friend of mine thought it was a "white people thing" since her bro-y, white, OC boyfriend at the time used to say it constantly to his friends. It could definitely be a white people thing since it was my lily white mother who always said it and very rarely my Mexican dad. In my mother's case, there was a deeper meaning.
A couple of years before she passed I asked her this question because I was curious. Let me preface it first by giving a little background--my mother's childhood was anything but great. Her parents didn't really parent and acted resentful that she was even born. When my mother was 7 or 8, my grandmother told her the only reason why she had her was to save her failing marriage to my grandfather (They divorced not too long after my mother found out). My grandfather was often times critical of her appearance--everything from her nose to her weight was put under a microscope. This would lead her to have a form of body dysmorphia and for most of her life she would consider her tiny frame as fat and her regular sized nose as huge (My grandfather was definitely calling the kettle black in that regard, as he had a huge Italian schnoz and had no room to speak). My mother was the black sheep of the family, to put it simply. Add the fact that both of my grandparents were going through their own addictions. When my mother was 12, she had to drive from Lancaster to Palm Springs late at night to pick up my drunk grandfather so he could make it to school the next day--he was a principal. My grandmother remarried a few times and she married some huge fuckers, too. The step father that forced my mother to run away was a man by the name of Chuck. He was 6'4", 200 and somewhat odd pounds and he drop-kicked my 5'3", 110 pound mother in her ribs. He cracked two of them while her mother stood by her man. She realized she had two options--stay and endure the abuse that could kill her or try to save herself. She chose the latter. Her parents never looked for her for years after that.
It was apparent my grandparents never cared for her. I'm not even sure if they loved her, and if they did they had a fucked up way of showing it. Much of the things that happened in her childhood led her addiction, which would be the reason of her demise and untimely death. I've never gotten over that. I haven't spoken to my grandfather since her death and I don't really want to. He never was fatherly towards her, even after she was a grown adult. I don't keep any contact with that side of the family.
So when I asked her that question as to why she always said "I love you", her answer was simple: "I never knew if my parents loved me. I questioned it regularly and I made a promise to myself that if I ever had children, I would never let them question if whether or not they were loved. They would always know, no matter what". That's the thing I love remembering most about my mother--she was one of the most loving and caring people I was privileged to know and to call my own mother, my flesh and blood. Her parents may have not been proud of her, but I was. The fact that she could still being a wonderful human being that came out of a shitty family proves that there is still hope for humanity.
Because of this, there has never been a day I questioned my mother's love for me and my brother. I knew it. My brother knew it. I think her love and devotion has made me the woman I am today and I will forever be grateful for that.
So here's to you, Mom. On Mother's Day. You're not here on this Earth anymore, but you'll forever be in my heart. I love you.