My dad used to tell me stories before bed when I was a kid, but he never told me the story of my mother.
When I was just three years old, she disappeared from my life, leaving me with only questions that continued to haunt me as I got older. Dad reared me alone, juggling long workdays with simple gestures of affection like mixing my hair before class, preparing my school lunches, and letting me know I was never alone.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but worry about the lady whose face I inherited and the reasons behind her decision to leave every time I glanced in the mirror. That mystery hung over my early years like a specter.
I believed I had come to terms with the unknown by the time I was eighteen. A woman entered the café where I worked one crowded afternoon as the bell above the entrance sounded. Her eyes were the same shade of green as mine, and even before she spoke, my heart skipped a beat.
“I’m your mother,” she said in a tremulous tone.
In that moment, everything ended. After years of working on herself, she was finally strong enough to try to be a part of my life once more. She said that she had left because she wasn’t ready to parent a child.
I sat there feeling conflicted: amazement that she had returned so abruptly, anger for the years she had been gone, and a tiny glimmer of optimism that perhaps I would finally get answers. She told me about her hardships, showed me pictures from her trip, and acknowledged that she had been surreptitiously following my life.
My dad became silent when I informed him about the encounter, but he finally said, “I did everything I could to protect you.” But now that you’re older, you can select whether or not you want her in your life.
In the days that followed, there were lengthy discussions and cautious attempts to begin. I could sense the sincerity in her eyes, but it wasn’t simple, and trust didn’t appear right away. To be forgiven was to select to heal in the present, not to erase the past. I gradually came to understand that families can break apart and still manage to reunite. The years of absence were not erased by my mom’s return, but it gave me hope I never would have imagined.
