A Jamaican Experience: The Living Room Years
By: Baron Stewart
The Living Room Years
I took the handles of her wheelchair like I was gripping a shovel. The attendant looked at me, eyes sharp. "Be nice to the old lady," he said. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My mother and I had just landed at JFK from Miami, and I was there to collect her—not out of love, but out of something heavier: obligation.
She had lived in Miami for years, happily settled with her partner. But after he died, her health declined quickly—diabetes, poor vision, high blood pressure, and the heavy frame of a woman who could no longer care for herself. It was a yo-yo affair: in the hospital, out again, back in. The rhythm of her deterioration wore me down, not just because of what it required of me but because of what it unearthed in me.
In 1989, Cherry called to say she couldn’t live alone anymore. I flew to Miami, packed her bags, and put her on a plane to New York without giving her time to say goodbye to her friends. I couldn’t deal with the logistics of her life—only the logistics of her body. In my house in Nyack, she couldn’t even climb the stairs. She slept in the living room, the same space where my newborn son cried at night. My wife, Berkeley, was pregnant again. My resentment lived with us, too.
I hadn’t forgiven her. Not for leaving me in Jamaica. Not for choosing another path, another life. And now, she was here—sick, dependent, and unknowingly demanding an emotional reckoning I wasn't ready for.
The days were chaos. Caring for a baby, supporting a pregnant wife, making hospital runs, and juggling my job at IBM. Then came the transfer—IBM was moving me to Los Angeles. I was buying our first home, preparing to move across the country, and trying not to drown in responsibilities I never asked for. I secretly wished my mother would die. Not because I didn’t love her, but because the weight of everything was crushing me.
I asked my cousin Kenneth to care for her for a month that summer. Then, in a kind of rebellion against my collapsing world, I took Berkeley—with her protruding belly—and little Madison to Europe. London, Paris, Avignon. For one month, I let the colors of other countries paint over my gray life. I watched Berkeley laugh in the sunlit streets of Provence and held my son on my lap as we drifted down the Seine. For a moment, I remembered who I was without the weight.
But guilt travels well. It boarded the plane with me, slept at the foot of every hotel bed, and whispered through every glass of wine. I knew what awaited me at home. My mother is still fighting to live. I was still unwilling to let go of what she had done—and what I had become in response.
This was the season of my undoing and reshaping. The living room was her space, but it had become my crucible. Somewhere between the hospital visits and the laughter in Avignon, I began to see that caregiving was not the enemy—my unspoken grief was. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to lay that shovel down.
I truly forgave my mother after I took a seminar with Werner Erhard in San Francisco during the Christmas holidays of 1988. That experience opened a space in me where something tender could live again.
Her presence in my home revealed how confused I was about the situation. My mind told me to love my mother, but my emotions hindered me from achieving this until near the end of her life. I was sure that I would never do that to my children, and I made sure I did not.
The abandonment hurt because it was so long. It was 12 years—from when I was five until I was 17. There were many years of pain and anger built up during that time. That wound shaped my adulthood, influencing how I approached loyalty, trust, and family.
The situation deeply impacted my marriage to Berkeley. The strain was undeniable, but it also exposed our strength. We didn’t always talk openly about my inner conflict, but her patience allowed me to find my words. And when I did, she listened.
My son Madison, who was only one year old, was too young to understand what was happening, but caring for him helped keep me tethered to something soft and human in the middle of all that hardness.
My cousin Kenneth played a critical role. He loved my mother and came to Los Angeles for her funeral. Kenneth was more my mother's son than I was in some ways. I felt shame for not loving her as he did, but through his steady care, I began to understand what love might look like without resentment. She lived for many years in one of his apartments.
I’ve come to understand that caregiving is not heroic—it’s elemental. It's about showing up, about making someone else a priority even when you feel like you're falling apart. Sometimes, it’s wiping a mouth. Sometimes, it’s just staying in the room.
Love, the hard, enduring kind, is present. It’s listening. It’s interacting, providing, and above all, accepting someone for who they are—even when they’ve hurt you. Especially then.
Yes, my guilt lifted. I will explain that later.
My relationship with my mother symbolizes the struggles that migrants must endure to achieve success. The cost of opportunity is often measured in fractured families, extended absences, and unspoken grief. But somewhere in that cost, there is also resilience. There is a way forward. And this chapter—messy, unresolved, painfully human—is part of how I found mine.
RECOMMENDATIONS AND LIFE LESSONS FOR YOU, THE READER
On Family and Forgiveness
Forgiveness is a process, not a performance.
I don’t owe anyone a perfect, peaceful resolution. Forgiveness often happens in fragments—moments of clarity, tears, or unexpected grace. Opening the door took a seminar, years of living with her, and distance.Children carry what isn’t spoken.
I was shaped by your mother’s absence and the silence around it. Even decades later, naming the pain is a powerful act of liberation.We don’t inherit our parents’ choices, but we do inherit the emotional debris.
I had to sort it, release it, and build something different for my children.
On Caregiving and Identity
Caregiving doesn’t require sainthood—just presence.
I don’t have to feel noble or ready. I have to be there. Even imperfectly.Resentment is a shadow of ungrieved loss.
When I faced my resentment, I discovered it was rooted in long-unspoken grief—not cruelty.Masculinity must make room for vulnerability.
Pride and shame can keep us from asking for help or expressing our confusion. But real strength often lies in honesty, not stoicism.
On Legacy and Cultural Truths
Migration brings opportunity—and fracture.
My family’s story shows how pursuing a better life often costs connection, culture, or closeness. Acknowledging those losses helps us honor both the struggle and the survivors.Your parents’ flaws don’t erase their humanity.
Learning to see my mother beyond the role she failed in—as a woman who struggled and had her own story—is a mark of emotional maturity.We live out our healing in the lives of those we raise.
How I parent my children differently is not just love—it’s redemption.