Shortly after my father died last fall, I had a tantrum while driving my mother’s car. It’s hard to remember now what made me so mad, but for a good minute or two I yelled at my mom — unleashing all of the sadness and frustration I felt after my dad’s passing.
As soon as I finished screaming, the car was eerily silent and I felt embarrassed and pathetic. Sitting beside me was my mother, nearly 80 years old, who had lost her soul mate — a man she’d loved deeply and depended on for more than 50 years. In the back seat was Eleni, my impressionable 6-year-old, who missed her grandfather and was now watching her mother (read: role model) become temporarily unhinged. Before I could swallow my pride and apologize, Eleni had a few choice words of her own to contribute: “My Chinese mommy and daddy never yelled at each other,” she muttered. “Well, maybe they did a little bit,” she continued, “after they brought me to that place [the orphanage] where they knew someone would take care of me.”
Since Eleni had lived with her birth parents for only a few days, and had been adopted from her orphanage at 8-and-a-half months, I seriously doubt that she remembers much about her birth family. But her 6-year-old mind was able to make a connection between loss (Grandpa dying, losing her birth parents) and family conflict (yelling) that floored me.
In the months since my father’s death, my mother, Eleni, and I have each gone through our own growing pains. Grief-stricken, my mom tries to find meaning in a life without her husband. As her only child, I’ve been tapped to settle my dad’s estate, oversee my mom’s care, and maintain some sort of emotional balance in our family. Often, I feel overwhelmed as I juggle my grief with my single-mom duties and my mounting responsibilities to my mother.
For her part, Eleni has been growing up — and “growing out” — in many ways. Sometimes, she’ll come home from school and tell me that she looked at the sky during recess and saw Grandpa up in heaven. “I was sad, Mommy,” she’ll say. “But I know he’s okay.” Other days, she’ll dream about her pal with the snowy white hair, mentioning that he came back to earth for a few hours. “Then Grandpa went back to heaven, Mommy — really he did. And we all cried.” Last night, after we returned from my mother’s house, I grew weepy as I watched Eleni play in the tub. “It’s okay, Mom,” she said, without skipping a beat, “I know you miss your daddy. But you have me, your little girl. And you always wanted a little girl just like me, right?” (Coincidentally, I utter the very same words whenever we discuss her adoption.)
Of course, Eleni’s love and concern — as well as her compassion for Grandma — made me cry. In that moment, I thought back to a time, seven years ago, when I made the decision to adopt, and to how my fears, as a single woman, almost stopped me. Whether I was driven by fate, faith, or the sheer will to be a mother, I can’t say. But something pushed me forward then, giving me the strength, determination, and courage to go on. As I examine my new role in my family, I find myself again in need of something potent. I know I can’t — and won’t — let down the people who depend on me. After all, I have dug down deep to rise to meet challenges before.
