All Mother Stories Become Grief Stories Eventually

Hi,

Five years ago, I wrote a Quora post about the nuances of loving my narcissistic father. Surprise: he’s still a narcissist. Over a thousand of you subscribed. You can revisit it here: Are narcissists as soulless and dark as people describe? (Is this not overdramatized?)

I wasn’t ready to share my writing then or for a while after. But five years later is better than never.

That’s How Life Is will be about longing, disconnection, grief, love, sex, and the strange private rituals we invent to survive. With some levity. And fashion.

Here’s an essay I wrote about Mother’s Day—when you want to connect with someone but can’t, and you try anyway.

I hope you enjoy it and feel a little less lonely if you’ve experienced something similar.

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I was thirty-one when my mother texted me for the first time.

It’s Mother’s Day. I scroll through Instagram: grainy photos of moms in tight jeans and perms. Sweet. Boring. Swipe. I don’t post anything. I meant to call mine. Instead, I sit on the floor holding my phone. This happens almost every time.

The call always begins with panic: Did you eat? Are you lonely? When will you call your aunt? Then it drifts into static—names I don’t recognize, updates about the white Mormon girls who visit. She feeds them pork feet, slimy bittermelon with onions, rice left out overnight. Sprite from the big bottle. She says they speak Mandarin better than me. She sends photos of items she wants to mail: a thermometer, a walking stick, orthopedic inserts. Her version of “I love you.” Not with money. She doesn’t have any.

It’s not malicious. It’s a product of generational loneliness.

I haven’t been sending her money. That morning, I spent $30 at Erewhon on bananas, bone broth, root beer Olipops, and guacamole. Sorry.

She doesn’t know I’m in Los Angeles. Or that I’m going through a breakup. I don’t think I’ll tell her. It would be easier if she died. Not out of cruelty, but relief. In death, she could keep believing I’m learning German, living off my ex’s middle-management tech salary. Happy. Lying holds our family together, but it’s hard to keep the stories straight.

I signed a lease thirty minutes away. These days, I consult with myself—the person I trust least. At Mattress Palace, they ask if I like it firm. I want to make a sex joke, but I haven’t been funny lately. Everything lands a beat too late.

I told Krista I’ve been drinking too much. “Finding my edge,” I said, like it was research. Is it normal to touch yourself while thinking of your ex with someone else?
When that doesn’t work, I imagine Adam Driver in the Burberry ad—half-man, half-horse. Abs. Hooves. The absurdity helps break the looping.

I named my Wi-Fi Sad And Sexy. My neighbors must think: there she goes again, Sad And Sexy, second outfit change, crying. I’m not unwell. I promise.

I’m glad my mom doesn’t know any of this.

All mother stories are grief stories eventually. It begins when she brings up a living trust. Or earlier—when you realize she doesn’t know where you are, or who you are, and you’re not sure you want her to.

I don’t want her to die. I just don’t want to call her anymore.

Disassociating on the hardwood floor, it occurred to me: I could text. Clean. Contained.

Until recently, that wasn’t an option. My father never let her have a phone. But he’s senile now. She inherited my aunt’s old iPhone 13 Pro. I figured she’d use it for conspiracy videos.

Instead, she texted:
早上好。我是媽媽。
Good morning. I’m Mom.

That was her first text to me.

I was eight when I found the family photo albums. I sat in her closet, cross-legged among incense-scented scarves, ceramic bowls, fuzzy Dollar Tree socks stuffed with cash. A hot, musty nest. I dumped the photos on the floor and collaged them into a story. I don’t remember the pictures or what she said when she found me. The photos stayed scattered for months, then atrophied into the carpet. Then disappeared.

What I have now: a few blurry shots of her swatting the camera away. One video of her laughing. A crackling voice note: “Happy Birthday! Can you help me figure out the insurance number?”

She hates being photographed. Says she’s fat. Convinced her classmates from Taiwan might see. I’m not allowed to take pictures, but I do anyway—when she’s not looking. Always when she’s not looking.

Her text is an heirloom. I reread it. It asks nothing. I give it the tone I need: loving. Curious. Proud.

The night my ex and I broke up, his mom texted me: I’m so sorry about the breakup.
I yelled at him: Fuck you, I wish I had a mom. It wasn’t his fault.

I drafted a message: Happy Mother’s Day.

I attached a Peter Rabbit GIF. The mother rabbit kissed her little one goodnight. I sent it. Ate something bad. Watched TV. The guilt settled low, burning. I paced my apartment, gripping my phone like a baton. Waving it. Throwing it on the bed. Fingers to my temple, massaging, repressing every ancestral voice shouting I was a bad daughter. Don’t call her. Don’t call her. Bad. Bad. What if she died today?
CBT goes out the window, trampled by a semi-truck of old patterning at a cellular level.

I call her, but she doesn’t pick up.

Later, she writes:
對 我就是那媽媽兔子 你就是那隻小兔子 照顧好自己
Yes, I’m the mother rabbit. You’re the little rabbit. Take care of yourself.

I love you. I’m sorry about your breakup. I wish I could hold you.
At least that’s how I read it.

A mother. Somewhere.
A rabbit.
A text.
Clean. Contained.