The Day She Told Me I Wasn’t Going to Heaven

Series: The Truth My Mother Never Told

We were on our way to the doctor for a pre-surgery consultation.
She was in the passenger seat, fuming over juice.

Yes—juice. The kind she was served with her meal. The kind we offered to refill. The kind she insisted she didn’t get fast enough or cold enough or in the right tone of voice.

This is what sets her off these days.
Not pain. Not confusion. Not fear.
Control.
Power.
And the deep, unresolved need to humiliate.

She began yelling before we even got into the building.
“Honor your mother and father! That your days may be long on this earth!”

She weaponized the Word like she always does. Not for reflection. Not for repentance. But for dominance.

I told her to sit down in the waiting room and be quiet. We were in public, and she was already pulling the attention of strangers. But for her, attention is oxygen—even if it comes through chaos.

When the doctor asked how she was doing, she sighed and said, “I am a Christian and do not want to commit suicide because I believe that if you commit suicide you won’t go to heaven, but I want to go today.”

Then came the truth:

“I just want to go to heaven and be away from her.”
“She’s rude. She yells at me.”
“I hope I go to heaven soon—because I know she’s not going and I know that I will never see her again.”

She said that.
To my face.
In front of a medical professional.
With a grin.

I sat there stunned, not because it was the first time she weaponized religion against me—but because of how practiced she was in using heaven as a threat.

As if my salvation was a competition.
As if God takes her side out of pity.
As if mocking my soul made hers more righteous.

“The devil finally told the truth,” she added later, “You’re not my friend. You never were.”
“The devil told the truth.”

I whispered, “The devil is a liar.”

But she kept repeating it. Eyes sharp. Voice steady.
It was like she’d rehearsed it.

What I Wanted to Say:

You’re not God.
You don’t get to decide where I spend eternity.
And you have no idea how much I’ve bled to take care of someone who has never once apologized.
I was your child.
Now I’m your caregiver.
And still, you’d rather curse me than thank me.

What I Know Now:

That wasn’t the dementia speaking.
That was the same woman who mocked my brother’s voice.
The same woman who told him to follow a thin girl at school to learn how to be small.
The same woman who resented my joy, tried to crush my light, and scorned my boundaries as rebellion.

She’s not confused.
She’s cruel.
And I’m done mistaking her cruelty for confusion.

What I’m Learning:

You can still honor someone without swallowing their poison.
You can still love someone without giving them access to your soul.
And you can still walk with God—even if the person who raised you insists you’re not invited to heaven.

She doesn’t get to write the end of my story.
God does.
And His voice sounds nothing like hers.

I’m still planting joy.
Still pulling weeds that were never mine to carry.
Still growing—even in soil she tried to scorch.

🌱

✍️ Series: The Truth My Mother Never Told
📖 More stories coming soon.

#RootedHealing #GardeningAsRecovery #MotherWounds #FaithAndFlourish