I have vivid memories of afternoons when my mother would return home from work, visibly exhausted. She would greet us after school, quickly prepare dinner, and then retreat to her room for a brief rest. Most days, she would wake just in time to serve us, but other times we were left to fend for ourselves.
The same applied to homework. While she made sure we completed our assignments, there wasn’t much guidance or oversight. She expected us to become independent at a young age. By second grade, I was already making my own lunch and helping with household chores. I often cared for my younger brother. This was simply how life was for us, and I accepted it.
Yet, I also felt a deep resentment at times. I compared my mother to others who seemed to have it all together—mothers who greeted their children with freshly baked cookies, who kept immaculate homes, and who actively participated in school events with endless energy.
My mother worked as a special education teacher, helping emotionally challenged children, sometimes facing physical aggression from them. I was fully aware of her dedication and the exhaustion she endured. Despite moments of financial strain, she always ensured our needs were met, even with minimal support from my father.
Emotionally, my mother was present for us. Though we had our share of arguments, our home remained a safe haven where our feelings were acknowledged and we were loved unconditionally.
However, I often wished for something different—someone different. There were times I felt anger towards my mother. Why couldn’t she muster more energy for us? Why couldn’t she take a more active role in our lives? Why couldn’t she be like the fun, vibrant moms I envied?
As I grew older, I recognized that my early maturity came with a heavy burden. It felt like I was shouldering the weight of the world.
Nearly three decades have passed, and I have come to realize that my resentment towards my mother was misplaced. Becoming a mother myself has opened my eyes to the tremendous challenges of parenting—especially as a single parent, which my mother was not.
What I now understand is that while I am a tired, hardworking mother, I have a supportive partner to share the load. I can’t fully grasp what my mother’s experience was like, but I do know that she faced daunting challenges alone.
In hindsight, I feel heartbreak for the little girl who longed for more but no longer blame my mother. Instead, I hold responsible a culture that normalized absentee fathers, a legal system that allowed minimal financial support, and a government that offered scant assistance to struggling single parents.
My mother’s tireless efforts and love made a significant impact on my life. She often expresses regret that she didn’t have the energy to be more involved, like I try to be during PTA meetings or when helping my children with their homework.
To all single mothers out there: You don’t need our pity. Each of you faces unique struggles and victories. What matters most is to show up for your children. Love them fiercely and provide a safe emotional environment. Remember, you can only give what you have—so prioritize your own well-being too.
My mother was not perfect, but she was remarkable. She created a fulfilling life for us despite the challenges she faced, and her resilience has inspired me. I am proud to be the child of a truly exceptional single mother, and I regret ever doubting her strength.
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