Happy Birthday, Mom

The living room carpet was littered with pink and red construction paper cutouts spelling the words “Happy Mother’s Day.” Esther’s mom had ripped apart each piece the night before. Esther stared at the now empty wall and made the decision to obey her mom’s command to “Get out.”

But then a few weeks later, the two of them started texting. They talked about school, COVID, going to BJ’s—things that didn’t involve opinions.

“Okay, I can handle this,” Esther thought.

And then she receives a text: “I bought some of that beef jerky you really like from the supermarket down the street. Will bring you a box when we meet.”

“When we meet.”

Esther thought about those three words for what felt like hours. She didn’t want to disrupt the flow of the conversation so she responded with: “Great. Thanks. Your birthday is next week. Do you want me to come over? I can also bring lunch.”

7 days, 11 hours, and 36 minutes later, the calendar marks September 17. A Thursday. Mom’s birthday.

“Hey Mom, I can bring over lunch around noon today or do you want me to pick you up and drive us over to a restaurant?”

“I think I have something in mind to share with you,” her mom replies. “Why don’t you come over first? We can talk and then decide what to order for lunch.”

Esther walks in to her mom’s apartment with her head lowered, eyes fixed on the laces of her sneakers. “Hi Mom,” she says in a delicate voice, just above a whisper.

Mother and daughter head over to the long oval dining table. Esther notices her mom’s hair is freshly cut and styled; her long nails are neatly trimmed and polished. Esther takes a seat across from her; it feels like she’s walked into a conference room to negotiate the terms of a business deal with the head executive.

Esther looks straight ahead for half a second and sees the wall where the Mother’s Day decorations had been. She looks to the right and sees a blue ballpoint pen. She looks to the left and sees the remote control for the TV behind her.

“I was wrong,” Esther hears her mom say.

Esther thinks about the blue ballpoint pen. “How much ink is left in that pen?” Esther thinks about the remote control. “How many channels are there?” And when Esther’s mind has nothing else to think about, she lifts her head, just enough to see the words on the navy shirt her mom is wearing. They spell out “Proud to be a UPenn Mom.” Esther remembers buying that shirt from her campus bookstore right before coming home for winter break freshman year.

“I’m sorry,” Esther’s mom says. “For making you and your brothers carry the burden that comes with divorce. Your father and I—we didn’t do a good job of protecting you three.”

I’m sorry,” she says again. The repetition paralyzes her daughter. “And I want you to know that I see you. I’ve seen everything you’ve done for me. All the ways you’ve changed your life, adapting it to fit mine, sacrificing your wants and your needs. I’m sorry for even giving you that kind of pressure to begin with.” Esther sees her mom fidgeting with three square pieces of paper. There are notes, bullet points scribbled in script.

Esther has heard all of these words before. Except the words came out of her dad’s mouth. He’d always been the first one to tell his little girl that he was wrong, that he was sorry, even when it didn’t seem like there was anything for him to be sorry for. But each time her dad said those things, Esther wanted her mom to be the one behind the words.

Her mom stops fidgeting with the three square pieces of paper and lays them flat on the long oval table. “You’re my daughter. My only daughter. I love you. And I want to be a better mom. For you. I want us to have something better. I’m sorry.” Esther’s mom gets up, walks over, and reaches out for a hug. Esther buries her head into the navy shirt and there, she feels safe. She can’t remember the last time she’s felt that way around her mom.

“Happy birthday,” Esther mutters after their hands drop to their sides. Esther didn’t think she’d get to say those words this year.

As she walks out of her mom’s apartment that day, she repeats the words, “I’m sorry” over and over in a rhythm that matches the pace of her walk.

Just a week ago, Esther’s mom couldn’t even make eye contact with her. She and her brother had come over to pick up some things—books, shoes, clothes. As she loaded cardboard boxes and plastic bags into the trunk of her car, she saw her mom wave goodbye, but only to her son.

After every argument with her mom, Esther wanted to give up; she wanted to move on; she wanted to stop hoping. But she couldn’t help it. So after every argument, instead of running away, she would stay and tell herself: “maybe this time, things will be different.” And then she would go and nurse the wounded 5 year-old inside of her who’d been searching for the kind of love and affection that only a mother could give.

Today, the 24 year-old heard the words she’d been waiting to hear for so long. Mom said “I’m sorry.” Mom said, “I see you.” Mom said, “I love you.” Esther steadies her trembling hand on the steering wheel. “She loves me. She loves me,” says Esther as she drives out of the garage.

Sincerely, Esther