At 82, my mother is losing her memory. Lately, before she goes to bed at night, she’s been asking for her mother. “Please, Laura,” she’ll say. “She’s in the hospital. She needs me. Can I see her—just for five minutes?” My grandmother died in Greece, nearly 40 years ago, and my mother, who emigrated to America in her twenties, hadn’t seen her for many years before her death. Yet, when she seeks comfort at night, my mom—now frail and aging—asks for the woman who bore her.
It’s the same with my daughter, Eleni. At age eight, she nestles in bed at night, surrounded by piles of stuffed animals. As I turn to go, she’ll often take my hand, pull me close, and say, “Please, Mom. Don’t leave. I’m lonely.” Sometimes Eleni is afraid of the dark and simply needs a companion.
But other times, she’ll want me to stay and talk about her birth family. “No offense, Mom,” she’ll begin, in a sleepy, diplomatic voice. “But what do you think my life would be like if I still lived in China?” Or, “Mommy, how long did I live with my other mom?” she’ll ask for the umpteenth time.
From what I know, Eleni was separated from her birth mother when she was a few days old and brought to the orphanage where I adopted her. But—like my mother—my daughter feels a strong, psychic pull toward the woman whose body she grew in. She wants to know how tall her birth mother is, how old she might be, what she does during the day, and whether she speaks any English. But mostly, Eleni wants to ask her, “Why did I have to go? Why couldn’t you keep me?”
As a mother myself, I can barely imagine the pain of having to relinquish a newborn. I try to reassure Eleni, time and again, that her birth mother hasn’t forgotten her. I bring up the tale of a close family friend who found his birth mom when he was 38, and I tell her that his birth mom had never stopped thinking of him, even after years of separation.
For Eleni, this story is a bit abstract, but it leads to more questions. “So, Mom,” she’ll say idly, as she’s combing her hair, “What if I never find my Chinese mommy? How will I know if I look like her, or if she looks at all like me?” These questions, of course, are hard, since I know nothing of Eleni’s birth family. But I try to convince my child that, as years go on, she’ll resemble all the people who love her. Perhaps she’ll have her birth mother’s eyes, her birth father’s cheeks, her grandfather’s smile, and the heart and soul of her family here in America.
These days, when Eleni looks at me—her single mother, the only mother she’s ever known—she sees only our similarities: brown hair, brown eyes, and “peach” skin. And when I glance at myself in the mirror, I see a bit of Eleni, too.
But I also see my mother looking back at me. This younger version of herself doesn’t yet sit in a wheelchair, nor does she struggle with her memory. She knows what day it is, what season, what year. This mother smiles, and I smile back, strengthened by the knowledge that we’re one.
Illustration by Audrey Robinson
