Living with my Mother, by Monica Shie, Kolkata
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Born and raised in Ohio, U.S., and currently residing in Kolkata, West Bengal, Monica is a Midwesterner by birth and a New Yorker by choice who has lived in seven different countries.
In November 2019, I brought my mother to India to spend the winter with me and my 14-year-old daughter. My dad passed away six years ago, and although she kept busy, my mother was alone in her house in suburban Ohio. Our plan was that my boyfriend would take her back to the United States before her tourist visa expired in May of 2020. But my boyfriend was unable to come, and my mother is still with us.
Living with one’s parents may seem ordinary to people in most of the world. However, the American cultural narrative rewards self-sufficiency and independence, and many elderly parents, my mother among them, insist that they “don’t want to be a burden” to their children. Also, my mom and I never got along. We argued constantly. For most of my adult life, I avoided spending more than three consecutive days in her company. That is all either of us could endure.
The winter solstice marks my mother’s 89th birthday. I have watched her accept her dependent role. She does not second-guess my decisions anymore; she no longer blames me when she misplaces her glasses or spills her tea. We have grown used to our three-generational household, the routine of dinner together followed by card games that keep my mom’s mind sharp. My teenage daughter and I do not relish these nightly card games, but my mother does, and we are dutiful.
A few days ago, we received a Christmas card from a French family my mom has known for decades. The card included a photo of an elderly woman with her middle-aged daughter and son-in-law, and their grown-up children.
“Who are these people?” my mom asked.
“It’s Claudine and her family,” I told her.
“Oh no, that’s not Claudine,” my mom said. “Claudine’s grandchildren are not that old.”
“Mom, you’re almost 89,” I reminded her.
“Well, that’s not Claudine,” she insisted. “I don’t know these people.”
This year, largely through Facebook, my mother has learned of deaths among her first cousins, childhood friends, and neighbors. Each time, she asks me for paper so that she can write a condolence letter to the grieving family.
Since Thanksgiving, she has also been preparing Christmas cards. Today, she handed me a handwritten letter and asked me to print several copies to include with her cards. In it, she informs her remaining friends and relatives, “I did not return to Ohio as I had thought I would. I live with my daughter now.” The words strike me as final and stoic, the acceptance of a demonstrable truth. It isn’t what either of us wanted, but it is the hand we’ve been dealt, and we’ll play it.
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(This story was prepared for an “Imagine Another World” online storytelling workshop held December 19, 2020.)
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