By: Sandra Vo, Staff Writer
When my teacher passes out the precut pink paper hearts, I eye the foam stickers that sit in the center of the table, their glittery surface enough to captivate any kindergartener’s attention. Having only just turned six years old, my palms still retain their baby fat and even despite my best efforts, I align them crookedly on the paper.
“These are Mother’s Day invitations,” my teacher announces. I’m not sure what that means, but she warns us again not to cover up the words printed on the paper with any of our decorations. Once my paper appears satisfactorily covered with puffy stickers, I trace the outline of the lace trim on the invitation, mesmerized by its texture. My fellow peers chatter animatedly around me, showing off their hearts with beaming smiles.
I can make out a few of the words. Monday. Afternoon. Tea in the Classroom. Though I don’t understand the sentence as a whole, I can understand by my teacher’s excitement that this is yet another one of our grand holiday events.
Never one to forget, I obediently hand the heart to my mother the moment I climb into the car. She glances at it for a brief moment and tells me to put it on the table when I get home.
So I do.
The next day, I ask her if she’s read it, though the heart remains untouched since I gently placed it on the counter yesterday. My mother looks at it once more before turning to my dad.
“Another school event,” my father translates into Vietnamese before picking up his laptop bag and leaving for work.
“I can’t go because I have to work again, okay?” my mother tells me. I nod. I expected this response. And with that, I’m dropped off at school, the memory of the invitation already slipping away.
It’s only the following Monday that I remember the invitation that’s long since disappeared from my kitchen counter. A swarm of mothers stream through the classroom doorway, their respective children excitedly running towards them as they file in. When ten minutes pass, my teacher crouches next to me and says, “Don’t worry, I’m sure your mom will be here soon.”
“It’s okay. She’s at work,” I say, unbothered by my mother’s absence.
My teacher’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Did you give her the invitation?”
“Mhm. But she has to work.” The expression on my teacher’s face however, begins to worry me. Have I done something wrong? A mother leans in and whispers something inaudible to my teacher, a worried gaze sweeping my solitary form as she does so.
“Well, I’ll be your partner for all the activities, alright?” my teacher tells me. I nod my head wordlessly, but my fingers clutch the hem of my shirt anxiously. Am I in trouble? I don’t know why even the other moms around me are beginning to look at me strangely.
“Where’s your mommy?” my seatmate asks, her head tilted in confusion.
“At work,” I answer, though my voice is growing softer. I scan the room searching for other children whose mothers are also at work, but fail to see any. My cheeks turn hot and I lean down in my seat. If I imagine hard enough, I’ll become invisible.
“Oh. That’s weird,” she comments before turning back to her own mother.
That’s weird. Is it? I swallow thickly, the weight of the stares from my fellow classmates boring into me. The word feels like I’ve been branded. The weird one. My chest feels tight. I don’t remember anything else from that day, except how I flinched each time my teacher addressed the room as “your mother and you.”
The car ride home is silent. When the desire to ask my mother why she wasn’t at the Mother’s Day Event wells up, I pinch the inside of my palm instead. She has to work. She has to work. She always has to work.
I wonder why my mother has to work instead of coming to my class parties. I wonder why none of my other classmates’ mothers have to work the way my mother does.
But my mother has that weary look in her eye that tells me I shouldn’t ask.
So I don’t.
I crawl into my afternoon nap spot on the couch, worn out from the day’s activities and anxieties. A few teardrops land on my blanket but I wipe them off. My dad told me that I am too old to cry.
It doesn’t take long before my eyes close and I drift off.
When I wake up, the living room is warm with the heat from the late afternoon sun. It filters in through the blinds and illuminates the room in bright, identical lines. My post-nap grogginess doesn’t allow me to fully register my surroundings immediately, but the first thing I notice is the smell of fried rice. I look over from the couch to see my mom standing in tattered sweatpants with a giant wok pan on the stove. She stirs it vigorously to ensure the rice grains don’t burn, but the fatigue is visible underneath her eyes. When she realizes I’m awake, she tells me to get food.
“Cơm chiên. Your favorite,” my mother says. And it is. I take my seat at the kitchen table and my mother pats my head as she places the bowl down in front of me. “Sorry I couldn’t come to your school, con.”
“It’s okay,” I say automatically. There’s a hole in her shirt, but it’s nothing new. The memories of today’s lonely Mother’s Day event still stings, but the shame and embarrassment seem to dissipate in the glow of the setting sun across our kitchen. “Happy Mother’s Day, Mẹ.”
“Thank you, con.” I have the suspicion that my mother doesn’t fully grasp the American concept of the holiday either, but it feels less important with each bite of fried rice.
The heart invitation, however, remains safely tucked in a special box in the bookshelf, where it remains to this day, twelve years later.