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“Hola ma,” I say, tentatively.
“Hola.” She’s sitting at the table sipping mate.
I pull out a chair, slowly taking a seat next to her. This is going to be a hard, but necessary, talk.
There's a box of pastries in the middle of the table from Mariana’s, and I pick out a croissant. It gives me something to do with my hands.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about what I was doing,” I start, looking down at the pastry.
She sips her mate, then pours more water from the thermos, avoiding any eye contact with me.
I breathe in deep, expel everything, and then it hits me: this is an exhausting way to live. This is walking on eggshells, passiveaggressive, too much pressure and it’sexhausting. Maybe this is why I’m so tired.
“You can’t wish a better life for us and then resent us for it afterward,” I come out and say. “You can’t give us a guilt trip about everything that we do. Yes, we have been afforded so many privileges by moving here and being raised here. You wanted better for us, and you got it. We don’t forget where we came from, and we don’t want to. But we can also acknowledge where we are—in this country, and in this generation that allows us much more freedom than you grew up with. I’m sorry your childhood was hard, and I thank you for the life you gave us.”
“I don’t need a thank you.”
“But it’s still nice to hear, isn’t it? You gave us everything we could ever need, but we're adults now. I am an adult now. And I will make choices you may not like.”
“I know that,” she says with a defeated sigh. “Didn’t hurt to try, though.”
Except it did hurt.
She looks at me, across the table from her. This may be the most intimidating staring contest I’ve ever been a part of.
“I remember when she bought those shoes,” she says, reminiscing. “She always thought I would follow in her footsteps, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want it. I chose another life for myself—one with your father. And with you and Dario. And this country. I don’t regret it one bit, but sometimes I wish things had been different. It was hard. It was hard for her, too, I know that.”
“I’m sorry you feel like she chose dance over family.”
She shakes her head as she tells me, “Don’t listen to me.”
“Your feelingsarevalid, ma.”
“I was angry with her as a child, but I know she loved us. We’re the ones that moved away. Maybe we chose this country over her.” Her eyes are wet with tears, I notice. “Thirty years ago,imagine that. I wanted so much more for the both of you, but could be that I wanted all the time away from her to have been worth it, too.”
When we hit a wall with our immigration troubles, falling into traps with scammy lawyers, getting overwhelmed with all the paperwork, my mother felt stuck. Stuck between two places: the country she’d come to build a new life, and the country of her birth. And tied up in the legalities of everything, she didn’t really belong to either one, stuck in a heartbreaking limbo. She didn't have a place to call home.
My mother was made to be strong. She was the oldest, too; she fell into that role of being a caretaker for everyone. She was set in survival mode from the beginning and learned to never let anything make her flinch. She jumped into this new adventure, providing for her family, learning a new language, raising her children in a new world. My parents even picked up extra jobs to help pay for our college. They did it all without complaint, without second thought.
But in turn, she raised her daughter to be soft. To not have to deal with the hardships she did. To not have to deal with the roughness of life. To, unfortunately, unknowingly, make her afraid.
“You were so brave,” I say in admiration.
“I think there’s bravery in what you did, too.”
I shake my head. “Not like you.”
She places her hand over mine, squeezing it lightly.
“I miss her,” I admit.
“Yo también. But seeing you dance in that video was … magic.” She smiles softly when she says this, something that looks gentle and kind. “It made me miss her even more, but in a good way. Like she’s still here, and she’s with you, with us. Like she’s cheering you on. She knew what she was doing. She always did.”
This feels like support and approval. And maybe I’ll never be able to entirely break free from my desire to make my parents proud. But maybe I can reframe what that looks like for me.
“I will always love you. I will always acknowledge everything you did for us. But if you wanted a better life for us, if you want a successful life for me, it starts with letting me make my own decisions free of judgement and guilt. And it starts with letting me be happy. And I’m not happy at my job, ma. I’m really not. This can’t be the life you wished for me.”
“You're right,” she says with a nod.
