妈妈，

I admire you

for your bravery, your strength, and your determination.

You were the hero of your stories about your American dream,

and I was the awestruck, inspired child who clung to your every word.

In elementary school, you were my role model on every “All About Me” sheet.

In high school, you have lost me.

妈妈，

When I cried, I wanted you to reassure me, tell me you love me, tell me you care about me.

Instead, you misunderstood, and your lecture ended in a slammed door.

And when you cried, I sat there, in a silence that provided just as little comfort;

I wonder if you sought solace from me as well.

But 妈妈，

you peel my fruit.

You bring my vitamins to me.

You carry water to my room when my coursework confines me to my desk.

And at the Bravo Supermarket, you are meticulous and picky,

because the vegetables you cook are given to me, so they must be the best.

You don’t need to say you love me––I should already know you do.

You save the cakes and cookies and ice creams because I like them.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are all catered to me.

And because I cannot eat spicy food, you cannot either, although I know you find it delicious.

Time and money that could be yours is transferred to me.

I am thankful, I am thankful––

But your thoughts clash with mine,

so our fights always end in my tears,

and we grow farther and farther apart with every meal we share.

But I am grateful for our polarization

because if our dinners were not marred by disagreements,

they would be characterized by silence,

since our attempts at communication are futile,

and our feelings are too time consuming

and too unimportant to work through

(my tests matter more).

So I don’t know if you love me.

And 妈妈,

when we have our good conversations,

when we are not hurling insults and words of anger at one another,

we are smiling because I have just raised my grade,

because my GPA has increased

(so my worth has as well),

because you are proud of me, and I am proud of myself.

Still, I crave for the unconditional motherly love portrayed in storybooks

far more than the monetary success you describe in your reality––

no matter how hard I try,

I cannot surrender myself to your disillusioned recounts of your fantasy world.

I cannot be the daughter you want.

But because of you 妈妈,

I am loved.

I am privileged.

I am successful.

(I am scared.)

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for this relationship of ours.

It is vicious and tormenting,

constantly improving but never changing,

contradicting and overwhelming,

with hints of affection overshadowed by dramatic upheavals,

but it is ours and always will be.

You are my mom.

I hope I am your daughter.

Photo Citations: Phil Hearing, Willow Tree Women Carrying Baby Figurine, courtesy of Unsplash, https://unsplash.com/photos/42LLGP-QPj4