My parents put me through the wringer growing up.
They both struggle with extreme mental illness; arrests, drunken attacks, and sudden changes in custody were very common. (Which, btw, is a great first date opener during the “Where did you grow up?” question.)
When someone references their mom as “mother,” you know it’s not a good relationship. The most palatable diagnosis my mother has is bipolar disorder, meaning she goes through depressive and manic cycles. After sudden fits of rage or unexpected moves across the country, she’d apologize with arts and crafts time and dessert. We’d eat pudding in the middle of the night and make dioramas and sort of just agree that unexpected screaming was part of the deal. And you know what? Pudding is delicious.