At a summer barbecue in Atlanta, my mom saw my unshaven legs and gasped, “You look like a man!” I brushed it off, tired of her old-fashioned ideas.
A week later, at my birthday dinner, she handed me a gift—a men’s electric razor. Humiliated, I returned it. To everyone’s shock, she burst into tears, saying she’d overheard my husband admit he was “embarrassed” by me.
My husband, stunned, explained the truth: he’d told her he was tired of “talking to me about things I could easily fix,” but he’d meant my anxiety, not my body hair. My mom had completely misinterpreted him and, thinking she was saving my marriage, re-gifted the razor out of misguided love.
Later, I noticed an engraving on the razor—“To my strongest girl—Love, M.” Mom confessed it was originally meant for my uncle, and she’d panicked, believing the gift could somehow help me.
We laughed, cried, and sent it to its rightful owner. The next day, I finally called a therapist. In the end, I realized her clumsy intervention came from fear, not cruelty—and that love often hides behind misunderstanding.
