A long time ago I went to a national conference for column writers. During the question and answer session I had this question: In column writing, how honest should I be?

The syndicated columnist I have long admired had this advice: When you write, don’t be afraid to cut a vein and bleed. He believed in gut-level honesty. And so do I.

When I give a talk or write a column I am always gut-level honest. And I sometimes “cut a vein and bleed.”

Sometimes the thought occurs to me that I might have been too honest in a particular column. But so be it. My readers tell me they appreciate my level of honesty.

During a talk I just gave this weekend I had a fleeting thought that I had truly opened a vein and bled, revealing things I had never talked about before.

I certainly was vulnerable in talking about the basic question that plagued me for many years. It sounds like a stupid question but it bothered me for years.

My burning question: Why did my mother never once tell me she loved me?

I figured she must love me because it wasn’t easy for her to take care of me and my little brother after my father left. He took off for greener pastures in another state, leaving my mother with no means of support. She had no place to live, no job and no car.

I was 10 and my brother was only 3. Worse yet, it was Christmas Day and I never saw it coming.

I still believed there was a Santa Claus and got up in the morning expecting to find a few gifts under the tree.

Instead, my mother took my hand and my brother’s hand and we walked for what seemed like miles to her sister’s house. I didn’t understand what was happening.

Looking back on that time through older, wiser eyes I understand how painful it must have been for my mother. But back then I understood nothing. I just knew the father I loved was gone, probably forever.

I also knew enough not to cry or complain in front of my mother. Somehow I understood “no Christmas” was the least of my mother’s problems, and I didn’t want to add to her woes.

I had to “grow up” before I understood my mother was a hero. How she managed to work two jobs, day and night, to support us I don’t know. Yet she was always there for me and my brother.

Any nitwit should have realized how blessed I was to have her for a mother.

Yes, I understood all she did for my brother and for me. Yet, I sometimes saw myself as a burden for my mother and wondered if she loved me.

She never told me she loved me. Never. No matter what I did she never praised me. She never hugged me or kissed me.

But she took extremely good care of me and my brother. We were her total focus. I should have been content with that, realizing it was pure love that drove her. How could I not realize that?

When I married and had children of my own I made sure I told them I loved them. Every day in every way.

Yet, even as an adult I still yearned to hear the words “I love you” from my mother.

The obvious question is: Why didn’t I tell her? Why didn’t I give her hugs and kisses? Our family just wasn’t demonstrative.

Why didn’t I break our family silence and start saying I love you? I’m supposed to be a wordsmith. Why was I not able to say those three important words?

When I went on vacation with my husband I saw a blue plastic kangaroo with the mother holding a baby in her pouch. On the bottom it said “I love you.”

Perfect. I bought it for my mother and couldn’t wait to give it to her.

When I did, she didn’t say anything. She just took the plastic kangaroo and put it on the place of honor in her living room.

Finally, I opened up to her. I told her I bought the kangaroo as a way to tell her I love her. She said, “I know that.” I told her we all need to be more verbal about our love.

Then I started doing it little by little and finally my mom did, too. But not my brother. Those words were still stuck inside him.

I told that story about the blue kangaroo in my talk. There were about 150 people there. A few of the woman came up to tell me they, too, longed to hear they were loved by their parents. But they never heard the words. I hope they will start vocalizing their own love.

One woman told me she always felt inadequate and unloved because she never got any affirmation at home.

That made me glad I finally found the courage to talk about how I yearned to hear those words. Now, my brother finally can also say I love you

I just wish I would have broken the ice a long time ago.

Email Pattie Mihalik at newsgirl@comcast.net