Stories Along The Way

My mother had five children.

At one point in her life, she had to make a sacrifice that I cannot imagine having to make myself.

She was a single mother with a full-time job, trying to provide for five children. Reliable daycare wasn’t available to her, and what was available wasn’t something she could afford.

So she made the difficult decision to send four of her children back to Mexico, where she knew we would be safe and well taken care of by family.

My sister was only one year old—a baby. My brother was seven, just a year older than me. My oldest brother was also in Mexico, although he didn’t live with us. My youngest brother, who was still a baby, stayed in the United States with my mother.

And there I was, only six years old, living in Mexico without my mommy.

I missed her so much.

I remember crying alone at night because I wanted her.

At that young age, I even worried that my mother might die and I would never get to see her again. It’s strange what goes through a child’s mind. I didn’t have the words to explain the fear. I just knew that the person I loved and needed was very far away.

But there is something important I want to make clear:

I never blamed my mother.

I never questioned whether she loved us. I never wondered if she had sent us away because she didn’t want us.

Somehow, even as a little girl, I understood that my mother was doing what she had to do to make sure her children were safe.

I was simply a little girl who missed her mommy.

My Little Sister Became My Baby

My sister was only one year old when we went to Mexico.

She was so little and vulnerable, and I always made sure she was taken care of. In many ways, she became like my baby.

Maybe taking care of her gave six-year-old me something to hold onto. We were both without our mother, but I could at least make sure my little sister was okay.

My grandmother cared for us. She wasn’t someone who easily showed affection, but she took responsibility for three young children and made sure we were taken care of.

She especially loved my little sister.

My sister was Grandma’s favorite, and honestly, she could get away with just about anything. She remained her favorite until the day my grandmother died.

My aunt also helped take care of us, and she was good to us.

Although there is one childhood tragedy I still remember.

My hair was all the way down to my waist, and my aunt decided to cut it because shorter hair would be easier to take care of.

I cried in silence.

I can smile about it now, but that little girl was heartbroken.

We Still Had a Beautiful Childhood

Despite missing our mother, I can honestly say we had a beautiful childhood in Mexico.

We lived in a very small town. We could run around freely, play outside and simply be children. We were surrounded by people we knew. We had family. We were safe.

And although my mother was in another country, she never stopped taking care of us.

We spoke with her every week.

She had a full-time job, but somehow she was always doing something else on the side to make ends meet. She sold Jafra. She sold Mary Kay. She sold gold jewelry.

She worked.

And worked.

And still made sure her children had what they needed.

I remember my brother receiving a brand-new bicycle from my mother.

And I remember what she sent me.

The most beautiful pair of blue shoes.

I can still remember those shoes all these years later.

We always had good shoes. We had our school uniforms. We had food. We had a home. We had family caring for us.

My mother made sure we had what we needed—and more.

Except her.

That was the one thing I wanted that she couldn’t send in a package.

My mommy.

No bicycle or beautiful pair of blue shoes could replace her, and they weren’t supposed to.

Looking back, those things represented something else.

They were my mother’s way of continuing to mother us from hundreds of miles away.

Every uniform, every pair of shoes and every little extra said:

I’m still here. I’m still your mother. I’m still taking care of you.

Four Years

We lived apart from our mother for four years.

I never spent those years angry with her.

I never believed she had abandoned us.

I knew she was working and doing what she had to do for her children.

But knowing why you’re separated from your mother doesn’t make you miss her any less.

I still cried.

I still wanted her.

I still worried about her.

I still wished she were there.

And today, being a mother myself, there’s another part of the story I can understand in a way that little girl couldn’t.

I knew how much I missed my mother.

What I couldn’t possibly understand at six years old was how much my mother must have missed us.

I think about being separated from my own child at that age, and I can’t imagine it.

How many nights did she go to bed thinking about us?

How often did she wonder what we were doing?

How badly did she want to hug us?

What did it feel like to work every day knowing that four of your children were in another country?

I don’t know all the times my mother cried.

I don’t know everything she felt.

But I know my mother.

And I’m sure she suffered too.

A Thankful Heart

When I look back at those four years, I don’t have an angry heart.

I don’t have a resentful heart.

I have a thankful heart.

My mother didn’t leave us alone.

She didn’t leave us somewhere unsafe.

She placed us with family who would care for us because, at that point in her life, it was what she could do to make sure her children were protected.

Then she went to work.

She provided.

She hustled on the side.

She called us.

She sent us things.

And she kept being our mother from far away until we could be together again.

That woman made an enormous sacrifice so her children could be well taken care of.

And I have never questioned her for it.

I was loved.

I was cared for.

I had a beautiful childhood.

And yes, sometimes a little six-year-old girl cried alone at night because she desperately missed her mommy.

Both things can be true.

For years, I have remembered what it felt like to be the child missing her mother.

But now, as a mother myself, I can also think about the woman on the other side.

I knew then how much I missed her.

Today, I can understand how terribly she must have missed us.

Mom, I have nothing but a thankful heart for you.

For your work.

For your sacrifice.

For those beautiful blue shoes.

And most of all, for making sure that even when you couldn’t be beside us, we never had to question whether we were loved. ❤️