Abstract
This is the story of a young girl who grew up in Moldova with parents working abroad, and is complementary to the scholarly articles discussing children’s situations in this special issue. Her story is invaluable at a time when children’s participation – really listening to their voices – is increasingly in demand in the social sciences. Reading this story, we understand the ‘vulnerability’ of the children in this special issue, but we are especially struck by the ‘agency’ they show.
I have to call them. I woke up this morning and wondered how many of us have this thought in the morning and how many of us actually call our parents. I’m having coffee, reading something, need to be somewhere in ten minutes, an Instagram to post, classes, work, traffic, texting ... the day is gone. You end up not calling them because they’re probably already asleep by the time you get home and you don’t want to wake them because they’re probably tired. You don’t call them at night or when you have a cold because you know your mother will worry about you all day.
I won’t call them even when I’m having a bad day and want to talk to someone because I don’t want to upset them with my troubles ... more than that, they see in me the example of the child everyone wants. A responsible, independent child who has been making a new life for herself for four years in another country, where she arrived completely alone. How can I disappoint them with trifles that end up resolving themselves anyway? Besides, I know these are all in my head. They will be close to me even if they are far away, as they always have been.
I grew up with my grandparents on my mother’s side from the age of four, along with my younger sister and my older cousin, whose parents were also working abroad in Italy.
My grandparents took care of three granddaughters. We were brought up the same, there were no conflicts between us, we loved each other, and we played for days. At school, we were always at the top of the class, motivated by our grandmother’s words: ‘You have to learn because Mum and Dad work there for you. You have to make them proud.’ Our grandparents managed to fill the gap our parents left after every visit.
The hardest were the separations from Mum. We were afraid to wake up the morning when Mum had to leave, but we often didn’t wake up until she was already gone. She would leave early so she wouldn’t see us crying. We knew she was leaving early because before she walked out the door, she would come to our bed and kiss us goodbye on the forehead. That’s what I do now as a parent, on mornings when I have to leave. After all these years, the love remains the same.
When we woke up and our mother was gone, we’d take her clothes, which had her scent, clutch them to our chests and cry. That’s how it was for a while, and after a few more departures, I understood that this was the way it was going to be; I couldn’t do anything. I would wake up in the morning and hide my mother’s clothes, so my sister wouldn’t find them and cry. I had grown up.
Their homecoming was a big affair. We’d clean the whole house, cook a big dinner. Like we were hosting distinguished guests. We’d count the days and mark their arrival date in red on the calendar. It was a celebration. We received sweets, presents, kisses and hugs. It seemed like everything was fine, but their time away took its toll; it was hard to return to the sense of being a ‘normal family’. My mother felt strange. I was cold towards her. We judged her for leaving us at home, for seeing new things that we couldn’t. The relationship with my father was always complicated. There was no time to build one. By the time things warmed up, it was time to leave, and once again, we had to move away. A vicious circle that had been going on for years.
I’ve always wondered what Mum felt when she left. What about Dad? I feel it now. The years of realising that leaving was painful, even heartbreaking. That’s where the frustration came from.
I’m a bad mother. I’m an incapable father.
I see in myself the continuation of what they failed to be because they didn’t have the means, the financial resources, and they worked all their lives for me and my sister. They sacrificed years of their youth working abroad, running and working until they were exhausted, relying on photos to see how their children were being raised, and every time they returned home, returning to a child who had changed in some way. My mother sees in me the young lady she once was: young, energetic and dreamy.
How can I get upset when she tells me to go to medical school? The clichéd dream of every parent. But it’s her dream that she wants to realise through me, an unconscious desire I can’t blame her for. My mother lives through me because she failed to live for herself. How can I not go home when she’s waiting for me? She was coming home from Russia, Italy ... to a home where we children were waiting for her. The roles have changed.
My father raised me to be strong and independent. Not to cry when the going got tough, and if I cried, not to be seen. My father was the example I grew up by. He had an answer for every question I had and he managed to make a story out of everything he knew. Our dreams were nourished by stories he told us about his childhood, about how the Huns sailed into Europe, how Stefan fought the Turks, the wars of the world. He had a passion for history that he passed on to me. I often told myself, ‘I will grow up to be just like him, I will know a lot, and we will fight for the title of who knows more.’
I grew up. I know a lot, too, but this fight is impossible. I don’t want to fight anymore, I want to listen to him, I want to let him tell his story, to learn from him. I want him to still write poems late at night, sitting on the doorstep, leaning against a wall, smoking his cigarette and looking at my mother, still admiring her and loving her after decades. It’s not hard to guess what he was writing about. For this, I will fight with others, for my father. I’ll be his fight with the world. There will be no difference between us, I have his intelligence, his passions and his strength. As he fought against longing, injustice and evil in Russia, Belgium, for us, his children, his mother, his home, he sacrificed his youth and potential.
I’ve always wondered how my mother feels when she leaves. What about my father? I feel it now. The years of realising that leaving was painful, even heartbreaking. This is where the frustration started that kept me awake at night with tormenting thoughts.
I’m a bad mother. I’m a bad father.
I wish I could turn back time and hug them and tell them I understand. That Mum is a good mum. Dad’s presence a mountain behind me. I want to tell them that they have been my living example; I understand their struggle with their first life. I know they had never lived this life before, and then they had me. For them, tomorrow is as unknown as it is for me. And they are living this life for the first time, together, with and for me. They did what they thought was best.
But I can’t turn back the clock ... I’ll call them instead, even if the hour is late, before it’s too late.
Funding
The author received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Conflict of interest
The author declares that there is no conflict of interest.
