I called her Mom.
She was not my mother.
My own mother died when I was a teenager. A few years before that, I had met someone who would become one of my best friends. And when my mother entered the hospital—clearly, and painfully, a one-way trip—her mother became Mom.
Her home was the first place I went after I got the news. I remember her hug like it was yesterday.
Mom gave the best hugs.
And it wasn’t really the physical hug. It was what came through the hug. The love. The warmth. The absolute certainty that you were loved.
When Mom hugged you, you knew you were loved.
She also made sure you heard it and read it. “I love you, Darling,” was the last text I saved from her.
I think I heard her tell me she loved me more than anyone else and more times than I can count. Partly because I spent so much time with the family. There were periods when I probably saw them more than I saw my own family.
She wasn’t just Mom to me. She had a bunch of kids of her own and even more grandkids, but she was your mom if you needed her to be.
And Mom had another little tradition.
She kissed you right on the mouth.
Which, if I’m being completely honest, was a little scary because Mom was making the rounds!
You’d think, Okay…whose cold am I taking home tonight?
Mom was basically the outbreak monkey—spreading love and upper respiratory infections simultaneously.
But even that was part of it. Those kisses said…
You’re family.
And dammit, you’re going to get this family flu.
She always made me feel like I belonged. Like I was part of her family.
And that meant something.
I was a Black girl surrounded by mostly blonde hair, some blue eyes, (although to this day, I still can’t tell you what color my bestie’s eyes are!) and yet I never felt like an outsider. I felt at home. I felt accepted. I felt loved.
And I think that was just Mom.
I have a hard time believing she saw people through the lens of color. And like my own mother, she seemed to raise her children with the same love for all.
There was just something about her. You could sit beside Mom and feel your blood pressure drop.
Your stress level would drop. For a little while, the world seemed a little less complicated.
She radiated peace.
And positivity.
She was also an interesting lady with a genuine appreciation for arts and culture. There was rarely a conversation with Mom where you didn’t learn something. Wabi who?
And if you were wrong about something?
Oh Boy! She would tell you.
Oh, she would definitely tell you.
But even her corrections came from kindness. She wasn’t trying to make you feel small. She wanted you to know better. “Don’t say midget!”
She wanted you to be better.
To understand more.
I’m not sure you could find many people who had anything but kind words to say about her.
She was the epitome of generosity, kindness, compassion and love.
She gave me my first set of Christmas ornaments.
And my first cast iron skillet.
Two things that, in retrospect, pretty accurately represent the woman she was: thoughtful and practical.
At 80 years old, she came to a play I wrote and produced.
And I’m pretty sure she was the first person to stand and applaud.
Which was a little awkward because the subject matter was…let’s just say…a tad scandalous.
But Mom didn’t care.
She was proud of me.
She wanted me to know it.
And she showed up.
That’s what she did.
She showed up.
For her family.
For her friends.
For me.
For 47 years after losing my own mother, Mom gave me the experience of a mother’s love.
Not the same love.
Not a replacement.
Something different.
Something equally precious.
She gave me a place to belong.
A place where I was loved without conditions.
A place where I could walk through the door and know I was home. It didn’t have to be her home. If she was there, it was home.
And what a gift that was.
I am forever grateful.
For her life.
For her love.
For every hug.
For every correction.
Even for every questionable mouth kiss.
Mostly, I am grateful that after losing my mother far too young, life gave me another woman who was willing to love me like a daughter.
I called her Mom.
And I will forever be grateful that she called me hers.