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My mom gave birth to me and my three brothers at 22. She spent her early 20s raising quadruplet sons.
During an era that was supposed to be for taking risks and self-exploration, my single mom carpooled us to extracurricular activities, lectured about homework, and mapped out our futures while placing hers as the foundation for ours to flourish.
On the contrary, I cherished my 20s as a shamelessly selfish period for personal growth and discerning my values, ambitions, and social sphere.
Having recently turned 30, I’m now seeing for the first time all the sacrifices my mom made for me, and it’s taken me a long time to get here.
As a kid, I believed my mom’s sole purpose was to raise me
Though my mother was young, becoming a parent surely matured her personality. I didn’t view her as a young person. She was just my mother. I treated her like someone who could never relate to my skin. I treated her as if she didn’t know what it was like to be young and make mistakes — to want to make mistakes for the sake of the adventure.
Many of our fights were rooted in my perception of her as the ogre hiding beneath my bridge of fun rather than the person dedicating the best years of her life to ensure I became all I could be. She was the bridge.
I regret not recognizing that sooner.
I spent 18 years asking for advice, love, and money, only to spend the next decade trying to prove I didn’t need her.
I had to move away and make it on my own
Rather than embracing Mom as an unconditional friend who’d do anything for my well-being, I moved to New York and created as much emotional distance as possible between us. I thought I couldn’t stand on my own two feet if she were there offering me a shoulder to lean on.
“When are you coming to visit?” was probably the most common question Mom asked me throughout my early 20s. Some years, I even skipped the holidays to spend them with my friends’ families instead.
Perhaps the guilt of all she sacrificed for me drove me to prove I could do it myself. A simple “thank you” would have sufficed for Mom. Naturally, I needed hindsight. I needed to live life à la “Sex and the City” and travel the world to realize there’s truly no place like home.
As an immigrant, “home” became wherever Mom’s heartbeat pounded. I just didn’t expect it to be in the Midwest, where she moved in 2016 to start a business, MCC Kitchen, Bath & Closet Remodeling, hoping we’d one day join her.
Working alongside my mother helped us bond as close friends
During the pandemic, I faced the loss of a major consulting gig. Matters worsened when my boyfriend turned into my captor; I wanted to break up but couldn’t afford to leave him.
Mom immediately offered me the opportunity to work with her.
When I took the job, I was blown away by watching her transform from mother into CEO. She was barking orders like a military sergeant and navigating construction sites as if she were one of the boys.
At one point, I accidentally yelled at her to stop trying to help the contractors carry cabinetry. It wasn’t our job, and she could get hurt.
“Do you think I’m some old woman?” she hollered, insisting it was important for the boss to show she wasn’t too big for any role.
It was then that I finally noticed my mother was more than just Mom.
Our relationship is growing and morphing
On the weekends, Mom and I would go on walks on the lake and to new restaurants for dinner. I introduced her workaholic nature to the marvelous leisure of binge-watching “Golden Girls.” She forced me to become attuned to my spirituality — insisting it was in there, somewhere.
I never thought that becoming an empty nester so soon would give Mom ample years to step into a snubbed identity: her own. And I was recognizing that in her for the first time.
Mom’s prime years don’t have to be an anecdote she shares with me, but it can instead be a shared experience. After all, she’s a year younger than my ex.
Perhaps we could reach our golden years together because — unlike Mom — I have no qualms about retiring early.
