My childhood home was where I battled my mom. The home we share now is a place of reconciliation

This First Person column is written by KD Grainger-Peixoto, who lives in London, Ont. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

WARNING: This story contains details of suicide

It's a beautiful September morning and my mom and I are in our home, looking at photos and listening to classic country on vinyl while drinking tea from my great-grandmother's china. Mom is sharing stories I've never heard about growing up in rural Ontario and life with my late father. We're laughing and enjoying each other's company.

A year ago, this day would never have happened.

I am stubborn, opinionated and outspoken. So is my mother. Living under the same roof had been a recipe for conflict. 

My siblings, children from my dad's first marriage, are seven and 10 years older and lived with their own mother. This made me both an only child and the youngest. My early memories of Mom involve the special homemade birthday cakes she'd make for each of us: white cake with mandarin oranges for my sister, chocolate with Smarties for my brother, and chocolate with Skittles for me. 

Our mother-daughter relationship started to falter in high school. 

I was a nerdy teenager with an ever-present book in hand, often horror or fantasy novels recommended by my dad. I spent four days a week training my quarter horse Angie; I worked part-time as a tutor and at a barbershop to save for university.

My mom always seemed tired, was strict and didn't share any of my interests. She was quick to criticize, often accusing me of being inappropriate with boys or having secret tattoos and piercings.  

A navel piercing that I wanted when I was 17 — the first of many body modifications I'd eventually have — became a battleground. Mom insisted I'd regret it and called it a terrible idea. There were many hurtful arguments and attacks on my character until finally, Mom said, "Do what you want."

So I got the piercing. 

For months afterward, I heard how the piercing was demeaning, how it meant I must be sex-crazed and more. 

Two years later, I moved out of the family home in Brampton, Ont., to attend university in London, 175 kilometres away. Between work and school, I only came home during Christmas — and even then for no more than a week. 

It was so different with Dad. He was the parent I watched endless horror movie marathons with and frequently called from university. Each call, he would ask, "What dragons did you slay today?" and I would tell him about issues I was troubleshooting at my tech support job, my adventures in learning to cook, used bookstores I'd discovered, and how things were going with my then-boyfriend, now-husband.  

On Easter Sunday in 2016, while I was in northern Ontario on an internship, I learned my father died by suicide. With guilt, I recall dreading the idea that Dad had left me with the parent I related to least. 

I stayed with Mom for two weeks after his death, ensuring she ate at least once a day while circling through feelings of fury and regret. 

I was devastated, my mom was inconsolable, and our relationship became even more strained.

After I returned to London, it became a struggle to spend time with her. My mom was adamant to again make happy memories in that house but I wanted nothing to do with the place where my father had taken his own life. 

I know now that when I was a teen, my mom was overwhelmed with taking care of my father in his battle with depression. I also know now that my reticence to visit after his death hurt her significantly.

In 2020, Mom retired and sold the Brampton home. I was relieved to finally be untethered from that house. 

Mom lived with her niece for a while and we began reconnecting. I wanted to spend time with my remaining parent and it was easier now that she was no longer living in a place that held only painful memories. 

During this time, I learned we had far more in common than I ever knew — gardening, crafting, thrifting. Spontaneous drives down country roads. Working so much we forget to eat. Staying up all night with a good book.  

I've also learned to understand what shaped and guided her in being my mom. We speak candidly about how her strict parenting came from a place of her not wanting me to be spoiled, but how she also worried that I felt neglected as a child. 

It was Mom who suggested last spring that we buy a house together. 

A few years ago, the answer would have been an immediate no. But my husband Chris and I had been saving for a down payment to buy our first home and Mom's financial contribution would shorten our wait.

For Mom, it was a chance to save some money and live close to one of her children.

The three of us sketched out what we needed: separate living spaces, bedrooms, entrances, kitchens, laundry, and enough bathrooms. In July 2022, we became the proud owners of a century home in London's east end, complete with a suite for Mom.

Mom and I are both still opinionated, stubborn, outspoken women. But now there's more understanding, laughter and love under our shared roof. 

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