When my father died, people we never heard of turned up at his wake. Some told stories of a man we did not know. Two refrigerator-sized mobsters in suits showed up, sat 15 minutes then left - never saying a word. And the half-sister we never knew of. His wallet had half a dozen credit cards - all with different names. It’s safe to say we barely knew him.

My mom is still alive. She’s almost as mysterious. Her youth was in an abusive household - so she doesn’t talk about her family. We have gotten some more hints of how bad it was only recently.

I know more about them than they know about me

My parents have been open books for as long as I can remember. I do wish I’d gotten my dad to tell me more about the people the 100 some odd old family pictures he’d amassed before he passed away. I only really know who about 25% of them are and some of the pictures go back to the late 1800s

Sometimes I wish I knew less about them.

My parents were of the mindset : we are not your friends, we are your parents the whole time we were growing up. That’s not to say they didn’t have fun with us, we did every day, but they were a lot more concerned with raising us than they were with us liking them. It has been an absolute joy getting to know who they are as people as adults. Now they are among my best friends. I know so much of their preferences, likes, dislikes, dreams, regrets, their history and what makes them laugh.

My husband’s dad was his “best friend” the whole time, while his mom had to play both parents. His dad has passed, and his relationship with his mom is strained. He doesn’t really know anything about either of them. He never knows what to get his mom as a gift, or their medical histories. They are strangers to him.