The burden of sharing my mother
My mother has never been mine alone.
This was a recurring thought I’ve had every time she would choose to be with her younger siblings instead of her children—like when Mama’s mother got hospitalized and as the eldest child in their family, she had to take care of everything, so she would leave the hospital in Manila around midnight and get home when we’re already asleep. Then, she had to leave for work the next day at 5 a.m. before we even woke up. After work, she had to go to the hospital and check on her mother, then go home at midnight again. Then, the routine would repeat the following day and the next. We barely got to see her during those days. I was only around 6 years old then. I didn’t understand what was happening. I was too young to string the words together for it. But I already felt her absence in my life.
The nagging thought crossed my mind again when I headed home to Cavite with a cake I bought for her 58th birthday, with excitement bubbling up inside me as it was the first time I saved up money to buy her a cake, only to find out she wasn’t even at home because she went to Manila to celebrate her birthday with her siblings.
The thought was cemented in my mind when my severe allergy caused me to be bedridden during my summer break in 2014. My mouth was bleeding and I couldn’t walk without limping. But it was also the week my grandmother—Mama’s mother—died. I remember my older sister being so furious with Mama for not taking care of me. While Mama has four siblings, she had to take care of things as the eldest. And so, she sent me to my father’s home so he could look after me instead.
As the eldest daughter among eight children, she was raised to take care of everybody—even if it meant neglecting her own kids. But she also raised us to understand that as the eldest child, she had to be there for everyone. But sometimes, I would wonder, “When would she choose us?”
She took on the role of a father after her own passed away, leaving her responsible for her younger siblings. And I watched her through the years—raising her siblings and children, sending both her siblings and children to school, juggling the responsibilities of being a mother and the eldest daughter.
I watched as she took on the role of a second mother to her siblings’ children—going to their universities to make sure they could enrol on time, bringing all of us to National Bookstore to buy our school supplies before the school year started, and buying one of them a dress for graduation.
When some of her siblings passed away, it was Mama who took care of everything, and even then, she couldn’t show any vulnerability; she’s the Ate. Everyone leaned on her. So time passed with her grievances buried at the bottom of her heart, and she held it in as she grew older because it’s what they expect from the eldest child in the family.
Mama is someone I’ve always had to share with everyone because before I was even born as her daughter, she was already an Ate to her siblings.
But as I grew older, I came to realize that she did her best to be present for her children, too. I saw her scrambling to make it to every Recognition Day, Family Day, and Graduation Day in school. I watched her rush to get the household chores done after promising to take us out. I knew about how she still went home after every hospital visit to her mother because even though we couldn’t see her, she still wanted to see us.
She never had the luxury to pause throughout her youth because it wasn’t an option. She had to keep going because she had two families to raise. Sometimes, when I’d talk to her about things that happened to us in the past, she would tell me she had no idea about it. How could she? She was too busy wearing different hats to pause and ask any of us what the matter was.
And so, I kept it all inside, the grievances buried at the bottom of my heart because after all, who was I to complain about my mother not choosing us when she couldn’t even choose herself?
Mama has always tried to be present for everyone, even if it meant neglecting herself and giving up on the things her heart desires. And because she tries to be present for everyone, there are times she becomes absent in our lives. But how could I fault her for it when she’s trying?
She’s now in her late 60s, her frailness marked by the hand that held tightly on mine as we walked. Time has been kind as she remains present every time her siblings and children need anything.
My mother has never been mine alone; she’s someone I always have to share with everyone, but she also always tried to be present in my life, and maybe, that’s enough.
Madge Genele Resurreccion, 28, is taking up master’s in creative writing at De La Salle University.
