A toast, for the woman who didn’t even want me

Part of a series on our moms—or about being a mom—for Mother's Day

One afternoon, my mother randomly decided to reveal to me that she only wanted one child. I was young and did not fully understand the implications of her statement, but, fortunately, she would remind me of this fact again. And again.

She never says it in anger and, during a dinner when my would-be husband was nervously bringing up the subject of marriage to her, she repeats the story to him. "Isa lang sana talaga 'yong gusto kong anak."

She tells him this with an amused smile and my eyebrows react on their own as she adds the detail that, when she was pregnant with me, she was actively trying to—to put it nicely—stop my arrival. Nothing drastic or illegal. Mostly jumping, in an attempt to, uh, dislodge me.

She would always add, “Buti na lang ‘di siya nahulog.”

From this I draw a lot of optimism. I'm not even supposed to be here, yet here I am.

The author and her mother, Liza.

While I don't believe that children should be grateful to their parents by default, I consider myself lucky to have been birthed by a woman who did her best despite circumstances.

If the multiverse is true, there's a version of her that isn't a mother. She's doing something else and maybe she is happier. Once or twice she confessed to me that if she could have a do-over, she'd stay single.

She'd want to have me and my brother (and our beloved dog, the late great Shirou) somehow, someway in her life. But marriage? She'd pass, and she advised me to do the same.

"Huwag kang mag-aasawa," she would tell me. "O kung mag-aasawa ka, huwag kang mag-aanak."

My mother's quirky humor and frankness serves as a reminder that she is a human being first, my mother second. She, like many women before her, sacrificed her aspirations and identity when she became "mama."

She does not have awards for anything. She does not hold any titles. My mother spends most of her days tidying up the house and taking care of dogs and cats. She lost the love of her life a decade ago and she's alone now—no amigas, no brunch-mates, none of that.

When we moved to a different country—Saudi Arabia, where women have very little freedom—she gave up her job, her orchid garden, the connections she had with people, and...well, everything. She was building an isolated life with a man who suddenly died.

There are many success stories being told every day, but none of them measures up to my mother's life. She will always be the undisputed greatest human being of all time, despite her questionable politics and denial of some facts. (I'm pretty sure mental illnesses exist, ma. Men can be "effeminate" and not homosexual, ma. I’m okay with the weight I gained, ma. I'm not listening to your reasons for wanting to vote for Trump if you could, ma.)

She is not sentimental and her life is not my story to tell, but trust me when I say that it’s sometimes unbearably sad. But she wakes up every day and deals with it.

She’s understandably embittered by certain tragedies, but she still constantly reminds me to be kind to others, be grateful with what you have, and be happy on your own.

She taught me all the valuable lessons, like don't take pride in your looks or achievements ("walang kwenta ang lahat kung masama naman ang ugali mo"), laugh all of your problems away, and enjoy life even if it isn't fair.

I follow that last one religiously, to her annoyance at times. She warned my husband, "Si Aya kapag may gusto 'yan, gagawin niya."

It's true. I take advantage of every privilege and freedom she (and my father) afforded me out of respect. She had a difficult life and she made it clear from the start that she wants a different story for me. I refuse to fail her.

I don't believe I owe my mother my life—parents who hold creation over their children make me sick. But I do owe it to her to be genuinely happy because she did everything to make everything easier for me.

She didn't even want me and yet here I am. A daughter loved by her mother, always. I'm sorry for all the times I fell short of returning that love, ma. You deserve everything good in the world.