The Lesson I Wish I Never Had to Learn About Motherhood
When I escaped from the Taliban and came to the U.S., I became my sister’s legal guardian at age 21. But I still need my mom.
Dear Mom,
It is 2 a.m. I am sitting up awake in the quiet hell of night, worrying about my sister and wishing you were here. I don’t know when this everlasting winter will end. It is hard to keep our ground-floor apartment warm with its high ceilings. I am writing to you from our dining table, where we have never feasted, thousands of miles away from you. It is one of those cursed nights when I can’t sleep. The traffic of my thoughts overwhelms me. You know how much I used to love sleeping, Mom, but now I don’t remember the last time I rested peacefully. Maybe a year ago? Maybe more. Maybe since my sister and I escaped from the Taliban and left Kabul behind. Maybe since I left you behind.
Today is Mother’s Day in the U.S. Americans celebrate this day on a different date than we did back home. I never thought I would be here on this day without you. It has been 626 days since the last time I saw your face, since our last hug, and since the last time I smelled and kissed you. I don’t remember our last lunch together or the last time I ate your homemade cookies. I wonder how much you have changed. Maybe there are a few more lines by your eyes or on your forehead. Perhaps your hair is starting to gray. I am grateful to still be able to hear your voice, but our phone calls have never been the answer to the way I want to see you.
I keep thinking about the times we celebrated Mother’s Day—your day—together. You would always put makeup on, model your stunning dresses, and pretend to be surprised at the bouquets and presents we’d gotten you, even though you secretly already knew they were coming. Now this is the second year we don’t have you with us to cut the cake. This year is quiet, the same as last.
Still, living here, I understand Mother’s Day more deeply. When I came to the U.S., you asked me to take care of my sister, and I became her legal guardian at age 21. But I wasn’t ready. The responsibilities and the burdens—the guardianship—were beyond my capability at a time when I myself still needed somebody to rely on. I never expected I’d be responsible for a child while still being so close to my own childhood. But I tried my best to be a good mother figure to her. I started acting like you, thinking like you, seeing her like you, caring for her like you.
Since then, I’ve come to understand that to be a mother is to be a companion, a mirror, and a teacher at the same time. I’m caught between sisterhood and motherhood; I want to be both, but I’m not fulfilling either. There is so much about her I don’t know. I don’t understand the reasons behind her silences or her random smiles. Sometimes she likes what I cook, and sometimes she hates it. Sometimes she seems like a child who wants me to do everything for her, and sometimes she wants to do everything on her own. The closer I try to get, the more I end up distancing myself from her. The moment I became a confident speaker in our conversations, I realized I was the worst listener for not giving her the chance to talk. Is it always this hard to be a mother? Or is it just this hard to be a mother of a teenager?
I worry that I am failing my sister, that I am not doing as good of a job at mothering her as you did, Mom. I am sorry for not being as kind to her as you were, for not understanding her as well as you did, for not cooking as deliciously as you cooked for her. I love her as a sister, but I don’t know how to love her as a mother. Sometimes all I do is think about her—what makes her happy, what makes her sad, what she loves and hates. Sometimes I think about her so much that I forget to think about myself. Sometimes I feel like I’m being erased. How have you been doing this all your life?
I don’t even know whether you can read this or not. I know Dad taught you a few words of English. Tell me, are you still pronouncing checkup as “catch-up”? I wish I could ask you for advice, Mom. But I don’t dare look you in the eye and tell you that you were wrong about me taking good care of my sister. I don’t dare tell you how I learned that it has never been easy to be you. I don’t dare tell you how acting as a mom has made me realize how much I still need a mom—how much I still need you.