My mother passed away 13 years ago. I think of her most days, if not every day. We were very close, perhaps even more so because I lived far away, which left fewer chances to get under each other’s skin. Instead, when we were together, the rooms echoed with laughter and filled with the comforting scent of sautéed garlic and onions.
One of our favorite rituals was playing Rummy 500. She beat me every single time. Then, as if to soften the blow, my mother would make one of my favorite meals and watch with giddy delight as I devoured every bite. We spent a lot of time together, but never enough.
“I am so deeply grateful to have loved and been loved by you.”
With Mother’s Day approaching, I felt compelled to write to her. The truth is, I would give anything to speak to her or hug one more time. Perhaps this letter will remind others to seize that opportunity while they still can.
Dear Mom,
I need you to know…
Your home-cooked meals live inside my soul. I don’t follow recipes to recreate them. I cook from instinct, from memory, from heart. The same heart that was shaped by yours. If I so much as mention I’m making Mama Riola’s chicken cutlets, there is suddenly a line outside my kitchen, filled with drooling anticipation. Thank you for passing along your love language.
I organize drawers and closets when I feel overwhelmed too. I used to tease you about this, but now I understand it is a way of coping, of restoring order when life feels chaotic. I am sorry. I would have helped you, had I known.
I have quit smoking. I understand now how deeply you struggled with it—how a cigarette could feel like both a companion in darkness and in celebration. It was not simple. It was not easy. I think you would be proud of me.
I am sorry, and not sorry, for moving so far away. I feel now the ache you must have carried all those years, especially when I call Cassidy in Hawaii just to catch up. Nothing replaces shared dinners or spontaneous outings. But what we had, and what I have with my daughter, proves that true connection is built with intention, effort and love.
I have become a late-night snacker. I still smile when I think of waking up in the middle of the night and finding the refrigerator casting its glow across the kitchen, your fuzzy striped robe bent over, searching for something sweet. I loved sneaking up behind you, just to make you jump. Now it is the clickity-clack of my dogs’ paws that follow me to the fridge. I say hello to you in those quiet moments. I wonder if you hear me.
I need you to know…
I never had the kids baptized. I do not believe they are destined for purgatory or anything close to it. They are extraordinary young adults: kind, thoughtful and humorous. They have found their own paths to spirituality, and I trust that.
I visit friends in the hospital, bring meals to those who are sick or elderly, share what I have, and truly listen when people speak. I used to begrudge being “dragged” along on your visits, but now I understand. Giving is not just something we do; it is something we become. I am a giver.
I have passed down our love of music to your grandchildren. I still smile when I think about us dancing in the kitchen or belting out Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” at the top of our lungs. Now, with a simple click, I can share a song instantly with Cassidy. We seek out live music whenever we can. I only wish we had more of those moments together. I do not take them for granted anymore.
Even though we parented differently, the heart of what you gave me, your kindness and your warmth, lives on in me and in your grandchildren. I am so deeply grateful to have loved and been loved by you. I can only hope that one day, my children might write something like this about me.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love and miss you.
I carry a deep compassion for mothers, the ones who work tirelessly and quietly every single day to create a positive life for their families. The sheer, endless capacity for care and love it requires is astonishing. So, while there is a day in May devoted to moms, I urge you not to wait for it. Love does not belong on a calendar. It lives in the ordinary, in the quick calls, the shared stories, the small, passing moments we so often assume will come again. If your mother is still here, reach for her. Say the thing. Ask the question. Stay a little longer. One day, you will understand that what felt like enough time never was.
