My mother is everything my father wasn’t.

my mother is everything

There you have it. One of the few musical appearances you will find of me on the web. I have decided to share this song with you because today is the day I tell you about my mother. And she loves it when I play this song. We sit in the living room, I turn the lights off and play in the dark. She sips her peppermint tea while mine is cooling on the piano, waiting for the breaks in between songs.

And so the concert begins, with an alert and loving audience of one, sometimes three, extending to my grandparents. This is my little family. Three generations gathered under the same roof for a week or two. An evident, missing figure from the family picture and a whole lot of love to make up for it. Because you see, my mother has always been a single parent. My best friend jokes sometimes, she says that my mother made me on her own, and it may as well be true. She may have had a little help but from the day I was born, a set of priorities was born. My mother had me. My father had beer. A simple equation with an intolerable outcome.

mamabeboI never lacked anything. My mother had love to give, she had it in heaps. And so she gave. She gave everything she had in her to provide for me while being there for me. Maintaining a balance between work and life is a tricky feat and yet, somehow, she managed both. She was providing, and she was present. She was everything my father wasn’t.

I don’t recall much of my early childhood. It is punctuated by vague memories, floating in an uncertain world that may or may not have happened. My clearer memories begin at the age of 7, when we moved to Casablanca. In fact, that is when everything began. Some might call it a rebirth, I call it… just birth.

There is a saying in Bulgarian that goes something like this: “I know 200 and I know 2.” This is my mother’s motto in life. Our life in Morroco was 200. After her company went bankrupt and we were forced to go back after ten years of a sunny life, our life dropped to 2. But even at the sad low of 2, my mother has been capable of dreaming of the jolly high of 200. And to tell you the truth, she has nailed it down. Life is 200 and 2. It is beautiful and it is ugly. It is fulfilling and it is painful. It is the cold winters and it is the blooming springs.

I like to think my mother has taught me the rule of 200 and 2 pretty well. It does notmama mean you should rest on your laurels and wait until you climb back up. It just teaches you patience and perseverance. And sacrifice. Sometimes I think of how much she has had to sacrifice to get me to where I am today. How many happy moments she has offered me, incredible trips, beautiful places, expensive hobbies, an education abroad supported with a mediocre salary in Bulgarian Levs!

I remember when I received my first pay check. She had pretty much supported me during university and I was dreaming of the day I would be able to reverse the hourglass and provide for her. I am not there just yet, but slowly, I am making a life here in London, earning my own salary, lifting off her shoulders the help she was struggling to give but gave nonetheless.

I bought her a coffee machine last Christmas. A life-long dream. You should have seen her face, streaming with tears. For me, this was 200. This is what it is. The little moments you have saved up for, for months. The occasional treat to expensive, chocolate truffles. The long hug at the airport after months of distant Skype chats. The big, hiking trip in the Swiss Alps. And as long as you have a 200 in mind, it doesn’t matter how low you are.

Maman, si je décide de t’envoyer le lien de ce post – chose qui est risquée puisque tu seras déjà en larmes, sache que je t’aime et je te dis merci. Prends soin de toi, je n’ai qu’une seule de toi.


Thanks for reading.
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28 responses to “My mother is everything my father wasn’t.

  1. Wow! I love the song. It literally brought tears to my eyes. I couldn’t get past the first paragraph.

    This is a wonderful story. I understand a little better how such a young woman can be so mature. Now you have me asking a lot of question. I am curious why you are in London.

    Liked by 1 person

      • Well, call it an experiment. If I were to only stay close to my roots, I would not have left Bulgaria and I can’t imagine what my life would’ve been following this scenario.

        Liked by 1 person

      • We have a similar background. I’m an only child. My father was an alcoholic. My mother left him and to a large extent raised me. I left her and moved across the continent after graduating and never returned. After she passed I have regretted not having her closer.


      • I’m sorry that I am getting to know you with such a distance in between… But I’m glad I am. And I understand now why you and I ‘connected’ so easily.
        You shouldn’t regret it (although who am I to tell you that…) We all move away from home nowadays. Unfortunately, Bulgaria doesn’t have what I want; it hasn’t got much to offer me professionally and companies rarely respect you and what you are worth there. Hurts to say, but it is true.
        Sometimes I wish I could squeeze the planet into one small point where everything is within walk-able distance…

        Liked by 1 person

      • Yes, it’s unfortunate. I am not impressed easily, particularly by such a young woman. If you ever want a more detailed “chat”, you can find my email on LinkedIn.

        Keep writing. Keep singing. And, get that piano

        Liked by 1 person

  2. And you SING as well?? Beautiful. I hope that more and more people will have exposure to your music and your writing. I didn’t know you spoke French either – merveilleuse! What a joy to have such a loving and supportive Mother, and for her to have you.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Ha, yes I do :) Thank you so much.
      Yes, learning French imposed itself when I turned on the TV in Morocco and did not understand a thing! I’m afraid to say I speak it better than my own language.

      Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you so much! It is a beautiful proverb and the beauty of it is that my mom never actually imposed it on me. She just lived by this principle and taught me how to follow.
      Thank you for your kind words!

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Pingback: My mother is like water. | A Writer's Caravan·

  4. Pingback: My granddad’s eyes. | A Writer's Caravan·

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