To my 16-year-old mother, with admiration:
For five long years, I yearned to become a mother. My journey was filled with countless doctor appointments, hormonal treatments, and the heartbreak of negative pregnancy tests. The tears flowed freely, and the word “barren” echoed in my mind, conjuring an image of a desolate wasteland.
Yet, I consider myself fortunate. Nine years ago, my miracle arrived—his name is Leo, and he is the most remarkable person I have ever known.
My own entry into the world, however, was quite different. It was neither planned nor celebrated. For my mother, it was a life-altering event.
Just 36 hours after her 16th birthday, my mother went into labor. My father was also a teenager, and it was 1974—just a year after Roe v. Wade. Although societal norms were shifting, children born out of wedlock were still stigmatized, and young mothers faced significant shame. When I encountered Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, the word “ignominious” became synonymous with my mother’s experience.
She concealed her pregnancy, even from herself, and for five months, I remained hidden beneath the loose-fitting smocks fashionable at the time. My grandmother was only 39 when she discovered her daughter was expecting. As a working divorcée with five children, she was already overwhelmed.
Consequently, my mother was withdrawn from school and confined indoors, except for medical appointments. My family collectively decided that adoption was the best option—keeping everything as discreet as possible.
When she arrived at Mt. Holly Memorial Hospital in New Jersey, my mother remained silent throughout her labor. The hospital’s policy at the time permitted only spouses in the delivery room. Since my parents were not married, she was alone—no parents, friends, or siblings by her side. Fearing judgment, she endured more than a day of labor accompanied only by disapproving nurses before undergoing an emergency C-section. I can only imagine the solitude she faced.
Reflecting on my own adolescence, I recall how I wasted my youthful beauty on insecurities and self-doubt. In contrast, my mother never had the chance to relish her own blossoming. At an age typically filled with opportunities, her pregnancy left her with deep stretch marks and a C-section scar that resembled a dissection. Although I have always seen her beauty, I am aware of how much her scars troubled her.
Unlike most stories, my family chose not to put me up for adoption. When I came home from the hospital, my eight-year-old aunt, unaware of my mother’s pregnancy, exclaimed, “She’s adorable. Can we keep her?” Within six weeks, my parents were married. My mother completed her education through a local alternative program that involved crocheting and relying on Cliff’s Notes. My father earned his GED and found work. Until I turned 9, I was raised in a bustling household filled with aunts, uncles, grandparents, and even great-grandparents. My upbringing was truly a collective effort.
My grandmother assumed the dual roles of mother and grandmother, complicating parent-teacher conferences. We were not a “non-nuclear family” in a trendy Brady Bunch sense; there was a lingering scandal.
Looking back as an adult, I realize that our shared experiences—mother-daughter canoe trips, adventures at Disney World, indulging in funnel cakes on the Ocean City boardwalk, and lazy beach days—were enriching for both of us. My mother often resembled a child herself, laughing and enjoying life, determined to provide me with a joyful upbringing. I was the Pearl to her Hester.
Watching her get ready—styling her hair, applying makeup, and selecting lovely dresses with matching shoes—made me feel proud. I thought none of my friends had mothers as vibrant and youthful as mine.
Admittedly, being nurtured by a mother still finding her way was a roller coaster. It was a steep learning curve, but the love was always present. In many ways, we grew up side by side. I measured time against my role in her life:
When I turned 16, I pondered how different my existence would have been if I had been responsible for a small, vulnerable human. No sleepovers, no hanging out with friends discussing crushes. No lazy mornings. (I even broke my egg-baby in a sex-ed project.)
As I applied for colleges at 17, I recognized that my mother’s future aspirations were limited, not only by societal expectations for women but also by her responsibilities to me. Finding a suitable partner, especially one willing to marry a young mother with stretch marks and a child, proved to be a daunting task.
By 19, I found myself plucking gray hairs from her head while she drove me back to my university dorm. At 35, she appeared too youthful for grays (little did I know mine would arrive at 25).
When I reached 21, I could have been the mother of a 5-year-old who could write in full sentences. Instead, I embarked on a road trip to the Yukon with someone I’d met during spring break.
At 32, after years of trying to conceive, I had yet to become a mother myself. It felt surreal to consider having a 16-year-old child or becoming a grandmother at that age. My life seemed just to be beginning.
At 40, I thought of my grandmother and wondered how she felt when I was born. Did she foresee her child’s future shrinking as mine was just beginning?
My mother and I often joke about wearing orthopedic shoes together and growing old side by side. She has been my mother, sister, and friend. I consider myself incredibly fortunate to be her daughter, and I am immensely proud of the 16-year-old version of her.
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