“Is your dad dead?”
It was a naive question by my friend in third grade. A startling but seemingly reasonable one. Among the many playdates, sleepovers, open classes, I realized none of my friends ever saw my dad, only my mom.
Work required my dad to move around the world for years even if that meant only my mom had to remain for my brother and me in a country that didn't speak her language, where she had no family or friends; just herself, her dictionary, and two kids that she would constantly remind while tucking them in if something were to happen to us, she would go to the depths of hell to find us or remain.
She was never late at any parent-teacher conference, never failed to plan a successful birthday party, and she never failed to find a hidden report card. But my mom had always diminished herself trying to uplift dad as the superhero she wanted us to view as.
“A man with an obvious Asian exterior and an accent like your dad’s will never truly be welcomed here. But he stays for you guys.”
She constantly reminded us of how much dad worked hard even if that meant the many painful four-person goodbye hugs at airports. But I knew that even if mom spoke like she had the advantageous side of staying with us, there was no “advantageous” side. During the years raising us by herself, she spent countless birthdays by herself and had lost her dad and brother which being a million miles away made her unable to spend the last moments together.
Nevertheless, she was an impeccable force of a human being. She learned English that by the time we were leaving she had made a couple native friends, and she demanded moral and academic excellence from us to raise "good people who will do good in this world". The strength and courage of my mom and her sacrifice to us inspires a driving force within in me to live up true to her words - and, I promise mom, I will.
Thank you mom for being my mom.
Love,
Claire