She lost her husband, my father, in an accident. She was thirty six then and is fifty one now. I was eleven and my sister nine. She decided to stay with her husband’s family for the rest of her life for the sake of her children, so that we could have as close a life to normal as any kids our age.
She turned a new leaf in her life, we went to school together and I was the teacher’s daughter. From being a housewife to becoming a teacher in an unfamiliar country, to taking evening classes in B. Ed, to cooking when she got back at eight after a tiring day, there’s little she hasn’t seen. All of it was worthwhile because it was for the welfare of her kids. At twenty-six, when I could possibly, if I’d chosen to, have had kids of my own, I understand the sacrifices she’s made – and not just her alone: mothers around the world make for their child’s sake, especially single moms.
I can’t imagine my life otherwise. Yes, it would be great to be able to wrap my arms around my dad but I learnt early about death – it takes away the best people from the Earth because God needs great soldiers; there is a star in the sky for every dear one you lose, looking down on everything you do, hopefully with pride, definitely with all their love. I like to stick by that story, even when I probably should know better at my age.
Today, if I’m an independent, dynamic, strong-willed but level-headed and passionate person, I owe it all to the strongest woman I know. It’s easy to stray into oblivion as a kid who just lost a parent; instead, to be instilled with that drive to go places, discover and carve out a niche for yourself, keep striving for better things and look at a glass as half full – all credits go to Mamma.
This isn’t just my story. Over the years, as I moved away from her and started an independent life when I was studying, I met a couple of friends who had the same story to tell. Mothers are the unsung heroes of many lives. That is the first relationship we all take for granted as we get on with our own lives. Time and again, we are reminded, like Mitch Albom puts beautifully: “Behind all your stories is always your mother’s story, because hers is where yours began.”
It’s amazing to me how every woman’s happiness is closely tied in with her child’s as soon as she becomes a mother. Times when moms take pride in their two year old dancing to the latest film songs, to when they excel in academics or sports or both, to when they see them fending for themselves in the big bad world, to seeing them married and with children of their own. From the time she holds you in her arms at birth, till evermore, she’s right there, standing like a shield, ready to take on the world for you, unflinching in her support no matter how many times you err and expecting nothing, absolutely nothing in return!
Like every relationship, a mother-daughter (son) relationship undergoes transformation. As teenagers we’ve all hated our moms at some point; but like one of my friends’ pointed out, “If you don’t hate your mother, then she isn’t doing her job right!”
Yes, I’ve been there too. We falter, we get mad, we fight, misunderstand and we take for granted. But if you look at the larger picture your mom’s played all these parts – your confidant, your adviser and even your punching bag at times. The good thing is, after all these years, I am my mother’s best friend, her closest aide, her wildest company, her partner and finally, her daughter. I hope every girl can be her mother’s girlfriend as well.
I can’t say it any better myself, so I borrow these words from the writer of My Sister’s Keeper, Jodi Picoult, to sum up my thoughts: “My mother... she is beautiful, softened at the edges and tempered with a spine of steel. I want to grow old and be like her.”
The writer is in equal measure her mamma’s and destiny’s child, in search of her white picket fence while hanging by a bungee rope.
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