As a Child, I Missed My Mom the Most When the Sun Was Low

My siblings and I had to take care of ourselves in the evenings

My mother will be 70 this year. But age has not slowed her down. She exercises every day, eats healthy, and frequently attends social functions. I am a full-time teacher and freelancer. Whenever I feel guilty for being too busy and call her up to invite her for a walk or lunch, she’s usually the one who is too busy for me. My mom has a more active social life than I do.

She is a shaman, but more importantly, she is a kind and generous person. Family and friends enjoy her comforting presence. People reach out to her when they have an ailment, unexplained anxiety, or a disturbing dream. When they are celebrating the birth of a child or a wedding and need a shaman to bless the event, they also reach out to her. In bad times or good times, many people turn to her.

Because she is getting older, I sometimes find myself thinking about the years ahead and the reality that she won’t be there one day. There will be an empty space in my heart. She might be thinking about that, too.

At random times, she would say to me how much she loves us — her children, grandchildren, and children-in-law. She would say that we are good, and whenever it was her time to go, we should never feel guilty or inadequate, like we didn’t love her enough or do enough for her.

I rarely got to see her in the evenings on weekdays

Within a year of my family’s arrival in America, my mother got a job in a potato factory. Her job was to watch the potatoes that flowed along a belt and discard the rotten ones. She was so proud to have a job.

For the adults of Liberty Plaza, the housing project where we lived, having a job — any job — was something to be celebrated and admired. They talked openly about wages and whose company was hiring. Even assembly and factory jobs were coveted. Many adults had trouble getting past the interview process because of the language barrier. They longed to know the secrets to getting a job. They referred one another for job openings and offered unsolicited interview tips.

The news of my mother getting a job quickly spread throughout Liberty Plaza. Wherever I went to play, people would ask about my mother’s work. She became a kind of celebrity. What will she be doing? How much will she make? What is the name of the company? Is the company still hiring? I enjoyed the attention and was very proud of Mom.

After Mom started her job, I began to see her less and less. She was at work by the time I got home from school and fast asleep when I got up in the morning. Sometimes I would go through an entire week not seeing her.

Dad was frequently laid off. He was home some evenings, but other times he was away visiting friends. Some nights Dad cooked a simple vegetable and meat dish for us to eat with rice. On other nights my older brother or I would fry eggs for the family.

Some mornings, I would peek into my parents’ room. The vinyl shades were always down, and the room was dark. I would stand in the doorway, hoping Mom would sit up and welcome me to her side. But she remained sleeping, breathing faintly. I sometimes felt empty and close to tears. And then I would leave for school.

I liked that she was working and earning money, but I missed having her around. I missed coming home in the afternoon to her ready smile and delicious treats. We didn’t have much money, but she would usually have something simple waiting, such as fried sticky rice balls or boiled chunks of squash with sugar.

Just as Dad was frequently laid off, he was also frequently recalled by his company. I believe the company had busy and slow seasons. Dad was a machinist. Whenever he was recalled by his company, he would take out his black toolbox. The glimmer of pride would return to his eyes as he checked his tools.

Our friends in the neighborhood envied my brothers and me. “Wow! No one to tell you what to do. You can stay out and play as long as you want.”

But being unsupervised by our parents was not always fun. Every night my siblings and I would sit in front of the TV and eat our simple dinner of eggs and rice or something Mom made during the day. From our living room, we could see the sunset, and whenever the sun was low, just touching the horizon, I felt like crying. Later, my older brother and I would make our rounds, checking that the doors and windows were locked and the stove was turned off.

Some nights all of us would fall asleep on the couch, and Mom and Dad would wake us up when they came home. On other nights my brothers would go into their room, and I would go into mine. I often lay awake on my bed in the dark until I heard the keys turn in the lock.

Then I would close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. I did not want Mom to know that I was up feeling sad and missing her. Some nights Mom would come into my room, and I would feel her soft lips on my forehead. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and tell her how happy I was that she was home. But instead, I would continue to pretend to be asleep and listen to her footsteps moving into my brothers’ room.

A rare, special Saturday morning with mom

One morning I woke up feeling blissful. A smile was on my face, and I felt elated. This was one of those rare mornings when Mom was not sleeping late, tired, or already up and out of the house, off to help a relative with something.

My bedroom window shade was up. The dismal room was flooded with early morning sunshine. I listened to the harmonious sound of clattering dishes from downstairs. Mom was making breakfast. Her hands were gentle and controlled, but I believed she was making the noises on purpose to let me know that she was up. I quickly got out of bed and went downstairs.

I momentarily stopped at the foot of the stairs and watched her. I loved moments like that when no one was up yet except her and me. I wanted her all for myself. Somehow she knew I was there before I made my presence known. When she turned to me, there was a smile on her face like she already knew I was there, not my brothers or my dad, but me. She was expecting me.

My impulse was always to rush into her arms and squeeze her tight. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her and how special she made me feel. I wanted to tell her that my heart was aching, threatening to explode from all the love I had for her. But my lips did not know how to form the words. I just moved farther into the kitchen and said I was hungry.

She smiled and said breakfast was almost ready but gently added that I go back upstairs to brush my teeth, wash my face, and comb my hair first. Her eyes twinkled as she moved under the yellowish glow of the kitchen light. From her tender smile and sparkling eyes, I knew that she knew I wanted to be with her.

Closing Thoughts

Growing up, I thought all mothers were tender and loving. I thought they all would give their children the best part of any meal — like the drumstick of a chicken, small gifts and treats even when it wasn’t the child’s birthday, or beam with pride, smiling lovingly at their children for no reason at all.

I thought all mothers were like that. It was not until years later that I realized I was just incredibly blessed.

© May Y. Yang 2022. All Rights Reserved.

I would like to give a shoutout to two stories that I read recently about love and relationships. They are touching and beautifully written. They are the kinds of stories that stay on your mind long after you have finished reading them.

The first one is by Dr Henry Tegner.

And the second one is by Alice Goldbloom.

Thank you for reading. To read my other stories, click here.