10/05/2026
Some people remember their childhood through birthdays or vacations.
I remember watered-down noodles divided carefully into four bowls so nobody would notice they got less.
I remember one cup of coffee being shared like it was normal.
And somehow, you always made it feel normal.
After Papa died, nobody announced that you had to become both parents.
You just quietly did.
You learned things you were never prepared for.
You carried problems without making them feel heavier inside the house.
Even during the years when everything felt uncertain, you still found ways to make us laugh like the situation wasn’t already sitting on your shoulders all day.
There were nights when we barely had enough.
But somehow, the house still felt safe.
I think that’s what I’ll remember the most.
Not perfect meals.
Not easy years.
Just the fact that no matter how difficult life became, you kept moving through it like stopping was never an option.
You always said problems are still just problems.
That people can carry them, think about them too much, or continue walking while holding them quietly.
I didn’t fully understand that before.
Now I do.
A lot of the reason I’m still here, still trying, still refusing to give up even when things feel impossible… probably started from watching you survive years that should’ve broken a person.
If life started over in another time, another place, another version of the world—
I’d still look for the woman who turns one pack of noodles into dinner for four and somehow keeps everybody smiling while doing it.
I’d still choose you.
Happy Mother’s Day, Ma... and all the mothers out there.