My Mother’s Daughter

I recently read an article that a friend of mine recently wrote. I was captivated. While it was written about a week ago, I have not stopped thinking about it. I wanted to comment on the website right there and then, but stopped myself. It was deserving of so much more.

It churned so much inside of me, and tore open a wound that I fight to conceal on a daily basis. Entitled, “Our Mother’s Daughter,” I could not help but feel a familiar stabbing pain in my heart.

Why the hurt? pain? sadness? Having lost my mother just over seven years ago, only four months into my married life meant many different things. It meant that I didn’t have my mother to show me the ropes, to vent to when I was having a bad day or to cry to when I felt like everything was falling apart.

Being the youngest child in the house by several years, I spent a lot of time with my mom. She was my best friend. We’d goof around together, dress up in nice saris and the finest jewelry just because we felt like it and listen to sappy love songs talking about one day when I got married…the only thing is, she wasn’t around very long after I did get married. I spent many years mourning this fact. Wishing that my husband had the chance to know her for longer than the six months that he did. Wishing even more that my children had the chance to actually meet her, know her love and eat her food.

I look at friends around me who have their moms around the corner from them; to drop off food for them when they’re not feeling well, to watch their kids when they need a night out with hubby, or to simply be there to guide them through life’s tough spots.

I hear other friends complain because their moms live so far from them, they only get to see them after long periods, or talk on the phone but not in person. I’ve learnt to stay quiet when I hear this, and refrain from saying “Be thankful you have your mom at all.”

I am blessed to have a father who tries hard to fill the role of two parents in ways only he can, like being there right after the birth of both my children; an act most South Asian fathers wouldn’t traditionally embrace. He knew he could never replace my mom, but he also knew that as awkward he felt, I would need him there.

A brother who was always like a third parent to me and continues to advise me and set me straight when he feels I need it. His wife, who equally understands that a family without a Matriarch has different needs. As the wife of the only son, she has stepped up in countless ways and continues to fill that role, better than anyone else I know.

A sister who is the only person on the planet, that despite how much we drive each other crazy, understands that we are it for each other. We are polar opposites in many ways, but we share the one bond that neither of us can deny. Without a mom, the only thing that rivals how much we drive the other crazy, is how much we need each other. Being nine years older than me, brought with it many challenges. Until my wedding day, she saw me as the eleven year old I was when she got married and left home. We were little more than strangers. I’d answer the phone when she’d call for mom, exchange pleasantries then pass it off. Motherhood brought us together. Despite the difference in age, my siblings and I all had our kids around the same time.

I’ve come a long way in the past seven years. I dealt with pain, hurt, sadness. In fact, I continue to deal with it every single day. But now, instead of pining over the loss of my mom, I’ve come to terms with learning from her every action. Replicating her warmth and love in my own relationship with my kids, husband and those around me.

I do my utmost to keep in touch with her friends and family; though it is not always easy. You see, my mom was a social butterfly. Having lived in Montreal for over thirty years, as far as the Pakistani community was concerned, she knew practically everyone and just about everyone knew her. This means many things. For one, I still have the owner of the local South Asian store tell me “Your mom was a wonderful woman,” or random Aunties tear up when they see me at a wedding with my children, telling me how proud my mom would have been. This means more than that too.

Along with losing my mom, I also lost that connection to the local Pakistani community. The Aunties that my mom was so close with, have also moved on. I have lost my membership to a community that it seems is perhaps only validated by having a mom. I am blessed to have my own wonderful friends, but so many of those relationships that I grew up knowing have been relegated to memories of times gone by.

Knowing I don’t have my mom and never will no matter how hard I try, is my reality. Something that will never change. In conversations with friends over the years, I have learned to be thankful for the countless warm memories of love, kindness and wisdom. To be appreciative that I was blessed with those memories in the first place. I’ve had friends tell me straight out, “we still have our moms, but never got to experience the things you talk about.” So, as such, I have learnt, perhaps the hard way, that I have to dig a little deeper. I have to try harder to maintain ties with family, friends and relatives. I choose to  embrace the role of being the glue that holds the family together as she was. I try hard to replicate the wonderful role she played in not only my own life, but in the lives of those around her. Though I know that nobody is perfect, she was perfect in my eyes. I am blessed to have been her daughter and hope one day my kids can say the same about me.

Thank you SS for the wonderful article and for inspiring me to share my own story.