For as long as she can remember, my mother’s biggest dream was to be a mother. At 12 years old, she spent her Saturday afternoons sewing scrapped pieces of linen for her Barbies and crafting outfits that reflected 1960s fashion icons such as Jackie Kennedy. She used the tops of shaving cream cans and cut through cardboard to make beds so that each Barbie had a place to sleep.
At 8 years old, her mother, my grandmother, placed her in a New York City taxi alone, telling the driver to take her home and promising to come and get her when she was settled. This was my grandmother’s version of goodbye as she left for California with my mother’s younger brother.
My grandmother eventually returned but would soon leave again, moving to a new location with a new family; that would be one of the last times she would see her daughter.
At 9 years old, she was known on her street as everyone’s big sister. She cleaned bloody cuts from the neighborhood boys’ knees after they played manhunt on the suburban streets and read stories to the children whose parents commuted into the city, keeping them company. She also spent her childhood looking after her brother since their father owned a French restaurant called La Côte d’Argent in Larchmont, New York.
As the eldest of two French immigrants, she only spoke French at home. She lagged behind her classmates whose parents spoke English with clear American accents and packed perfectly cut peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in a tin box. My mother packed her own lunch in a brown paper bag.
Despite feeling out of place, she spent her free time studying and perfecting her English, quickly surpassing her peers.
Thirteen years later, she received a bachelor’s degree in French and became a polyglot in English, French, Spanish and German.
Even after, she still dreamed of becoming a mother.
At 23, she married a man and did everything that one is supposed to do in your 20s, like working three jobs to pay off student loans and getting promoted to manager in a job unrelated to her degree. She continued developing new hobbies to give herself a renewed sense of purpose.
Eventually, she gave birth to a boy named Alexander. He died the same day he was born, leaving her dream of motherhood still adrift.
The unconditional love that she held only for her child was shattered into jaded pieces, still there but in a mess with nowhere to go.
Five years later, her husband divorced her after having an affair with his coworker.
She spent the next couple of years longing for an explanation of her son’s death or hope that the love she gave so freely to others would one day be returned. There was an emptiness in her heart, but eventually, the broken pieces were glued back together with the help of my father, who also dreamed of becoming a husband and having a child.
My mother endured endless rounds of treatment for infertility, taking countless trips to different clinics. Throughout all of this, her dream of becoming a mother stayed strong.
At 43, her dream of becoming a mother was fulfilled as she watched her 18-month-old daughter, me, walk through the doors of an adoption agency in Beijing, China, 6,824 miles away from home.
With the very first look, the missing pieces in her heart were filled. Her love was secure, eternal and profound. Every prayer she once had was answered. The love that she prayed for was found; she became a mother.
My mother did not dream of having children due to any societal expectations, but from a deep desire to nurture others. She wanted to care for a child in ways she did not experience herself.
At 53, she taught me how to sew clothes for my dolls, but this time, the clothes were inspired by late 2000s pop icons with bubble skirts and glittery accessories.
She packed my lunch with crust-free, perfectly cut PB&Js complete with sticky notes with doodles or sweet reminders of love. She read to me before bed and encouraged me to find my writer’s voice.
I think she did great – in six months, I will graduate college with a degree in English and journalism.
To my mom, I want you to know that your love was never a waste. Your dream to be a mother happened when Alexander was born and was reinvigorated when you met me.
Your love and caring nature are ingrained in my life.
I feel your love when I teach my housemates cooking tips you once learned from your father. I felt it when I made sure my Barbies were all dressed before putting them away, and I feel it when I carry a spider outside instead of killing it. I feel it when I’m reminded of my biological parents and know that you will always be consistent in my life and never leave me behind.
Your love and support are constants I carry, and that will be passed down to my children and their children; for I will always be my mother’s daughter.