The meaning of "Mom"

The day I graduated from university, I understood for the first time how lucky I really am. Looking around the table where we had gathered to celebrate, I saw six familiar faces and counted each a blessing. To my right sat Kyle, my boyfriend of three years, and beside him, his parents, Ron and Bev Clark. To my left sat my dad and Arlene, his wife of three years, and beside her, my grandfather, Papa. My mother wasn't there – but then, she wasn't at my highschool graduation either. In fact, the day I graduated from university marked twelve years, nearly to the day, since I had left my mother's home and moved in with my dad.

She had married, and the hostility between her new husband and me made home a grim place for all of us. When I tried to explain, she made it clear that, whatever he was doing, her husband was right, and if I couldn't live with that, I could leave. So leave I did. Luckily, my father accepted me into his home with open, loving arms. I've seen my mother, who lives a short drive away, just twice since then.

During my preteen and adolescent years I didn't miss my mom so much: I had my dad to argue with about shaving my legs and my first two-piece bathing suit. I grew up knowing that I was loved by my family. They encouraged me, influenced me, protected me and were proud of me. Sure, there were things my dad and Papa couldn't teach me, but, without a mother to show me, I wasn't aware of what I was missing. Our family was healthy and strong, and I left for university a well-adjusted, confident, happy girl. Within weeks I met Kyle and we shared stories of family and childhood. It soon became apparent how different our experiences had been. And it was only then that I began to feel the absence of my mother.

Quickly, Kyle and I grew close and, with Christmas vacation ahead, he invited me to spend some time with his family in Trenton, Ont. As we drove there Christmas Day, I worried a little. What if they didn't like me? Kyle's parents were foremost in his life, I knew. Would there be any room for me in their tight family that was so unlike mine?

Arriving after nine that night, nervous and tired, I was relieved that the Clarks were not overwhelming; instead they were friendly and thoughtful. In stark contrast to the every-man-for-himself hunt-and-gather at my house, Bev had even made ratatouille; she wanted a vegetarian like me to feel at home – and I did. When I left for Toronto two days later, well fed and relaxed, I was hugged and kissed by both Ron and Bev. No woman, other than my grandmother when I was young, had made a habit of touching, let alone hugging me, since I had left my mom's at age 10.

Over the next year or so, I watched Bev closely and sometimes puzzled over things she did that were totally foreign to me. On visits to the Clarks I found it fascinating the way my sweaters disappeared. I would find them later, hand-washed and stretched to dry over a net contraption with a suction cup on each corner that stuck to the bathtub.

When Kyle and I moved into our first apartment together that spring, Bev was there. She arrived armed with a bucket of cleaning supplies (Windex I knew; the rest were a surprise – who uses Pledge, anyway?) and some food for our anemic-looking kitchen. I learned all sorts of neat things – like that the grout between my kitchen tiles wasn't stained; it was just in desperate need of a good toothbrush scrubbing (how embarrassing was that?).

When I came down with bronchitis during one visit to Trenton, she packed me up and hustled me in to the doctor's office (my dad loathes and avoids such places) and brought me fruit juices and Tylenol.

She never once called attention to the things I didn't know, and I gradually came to understand how the woman of the house could care for her home and everyone inside it. After seeing us together recently, a friend of Bev's told me that, for a reason she couldn't place, I reminded her of Bev. I knew what she meant – the way we both speak and our mannerisms – and was complimented.

Witnessing the relationship between Bev and Kyle, I am amazed at the intricacies of the love she has for her child and how she extends to me an affection different in shape, but strong and generous in its own right. She is the first woman in my life to call and check up on things and to always tell me before hanging up that she loves me. This was strange to me at first, but it's a habit I have extended to include all calls with my dad and Papa. Sometimes with Bev, I'll even say it first now and I never wonder whether she'll say it back. As our relationship gets stronger, I am reminded, at times, of the absence of my mother. This absence grows with the blessings in my life; the more I achieve, the less I can share with my mom.

The absence of a mother in a girl's life leaves a hole that can't quite ever be filled. But Bev has taught me much about being a mother and a woman, and she has earned a special place in my heart. It does take courage to love, but perhaps it takes even more courage to let yourself be loved.