Do You Have Your Mom Still? Read This.
Her love was a quiet force, unseen, unfelt until it vanished.
She fell for my dad at 18, an intoxicating blend of youth and innocence, and married him, even when they barely knew their favorite foods.
Shortly after getting married, regret knocked on her door. She ran as fast as she could to my grandparents’ house, looking for solace.
But this was in the early 80s. There was no turning back from her choice.
She was just 19 when she traded her college dreams for motherhood.
It wasn’t her burning desire to procreate. My dad was nine years her senior. So, she fulfilled my dad’s dream of having children.
Life wasn’t a picnic with four ravenous creatures to feed day in and day out.
She spent a few years juggling her roles as a part-time Avon and Forever Living consultant and a full-time mom. Her work schedule was woven around us, her children, and her life. There was no daycare or nanny to hand us over to.
She often put up with my downright obnoxious question, “Why bother having four kids if we’re such a hassle?”
It took years for me to understand that what she couldn’t give us was as valuable as what she did. Her divorce didn’t extinguish her love for my dad. My selfishness didn’t kill her love for me.
She often cooked our favorite potato gnocchi from scratch, even when we failed to bring her back a slice of pizza from our outings with friends. She’d always ask us, but we’d forget.
Her silent battle was the “tiny lump,” a name she used for breast cancer.
She never mentioned “cancer,” and we were too ignorant to ask the right questions. We were too busy to ask her doctors what was happening.
We believed when she spoke of her shrinking lump and God healing her. But from one day to the next, she was gone.
I didn’t get to say goodbye or tell her I loved her.
Yet, her love knows no boundaries of time and space. She still visits my dreams, always smiling ear-to-ear. Has she forgiven my youthful insensitivity? I hope she can help me confront my guilt.
Here’s my call to action: Hold her close if you’re lucky to have your mom still. Shower her with affection, love, and gratitude. Don’t forget to bring her pizza when she asks.
Yes, it’s unsettling to think about it, but we never know when life might choose to rewrite our story.
I originally published this story on my Medium profile.
Words fail to convey what I want to say here... I’d give you a hug.