My mother wanted only one child and I was number five. Despite that issue and her many struggles to keep a large and sometimes difficult household running smoothly and efficiently, my mother cared for a problematic mother in law, didn’t hesitate to add an elderly relative with no other home, or to take in a local kid who had a particularly difficult family life.

She was strong and tired, impatient and incredibly kind, frugal yet generous, and although she didn’t approve of some of my choices, I knew that my mother loved me beyond the general care that she showed to everyone under her roof: that her softness was always there when I was most fragile, and that she would enlist an army to fight for me and my siblings if we were in the right and failing to muster our own forces.

She was fearless in defense of her children and others, and it was known that she would spank every kid on the block if they were misbehaving beyond the normal kiddy antics. Kids also knew that if she was baking (and she often did) they would get a treat, same as we did. She never blamed children for their short comings or bad behavior, and had an uncanny eye for the kids who needed extra care.

It was she who grew angry when I mentioned that a kid in class missed days and came in several times with black eyes and a broken arm. Our teacher said he was “accident prone” and made light of it, but Mommy bristled in anger saying, “That boy’s being abused! Somebody’s beating on that child.” I was shocked and freaked out that she’d drawn such a different conclusion, but although she said no more to me, I found out later that she quietly spoke to my teacher and the school authorities, and “Danny” had no more “accidents” that year.

As I got older, I realized how many people she helped in various ways and how big her heart was, despite her often strict demeanor. That so much of that strictness was born of her understanding of how cruel and mean the world can be and her fear for all the innocents and the vulnerable people of the world. That her empathy was hard to bear when she had so few resources to offer. That she understood that her mission and need was to guarantee that we’d survive without her.

She maybe worried most for me, her dreamy eyed, romantic, and artistic daughter- completely unprepared emotionally for the realities I would face. But I knew I had her in my corner. That I could call on, and conjure up a line of women who had gone through more with far fewer resources, and “lived to tell the story.” That I would see my way through and never be the weak link in that chain of women, from my mother and all the way back to “Mitochondrial Eve.” That somewhere within me, I was my mother’s daughter and that if I tapped into that, I would be alright, no matter what.

My mother continues to comfort me and be my resolve when I need it. I feel her presence at times, as though she’s with me, not just remembered, and it gives me heart. It reminds me that I have been and will be loved.

She is always and ever, my Mom.