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The word ‘mother’ was always complicated for Crutchie. He had had a mother at one point, one that he was sure loved him and cared about him. But she had been ripped away from him, along with his father, much too soon. All he had of her was the old folded picture that he kept in his wallet as he bounced foster home to foster home. He could remember the day he was gifted that simple but irreplaceable picture. Crutchie had been sitting in his social workers office for some reason or another and she simply slid the picture across to the table him. And there in front of him was his family. Baby him, no older than a year old smushed between a mother whose eyes mirrored his own, who had freckles across the bridge of her nose as well, and a father who had his same lips and facial expression.
It broke his heart that he had no memories of them- of her. And when Mother’s Day rolled around every year, there was a never ending ache in his chest. Wondering what she was like, what they would be doing on Mother’s Day to celebrate her. Would he have had siblings? Would they have gone on family trips? It was those thoughts and the simple image of her that often lulled him to sleep on Mother’s Day. It was her imaginative voice and kind words that would block out the screaming and yelling and punishments that came more often than not in the foster homes. It was the urge of wanting to make her proud, where ever she was, heaven or somewhere else, that kept his drive alive. That pushed him to survive the homes that tried to drown him.
The idea of a mother, to have a mother figure in his life disappeared the older he got. Knowing that most people wanted the cute young kids. Not teenage boys who had been in the system for fifteen years. And surely not a kid who had a bad leg- who needed the support of his forearm crutch the get around. As he watched his fellow foster siblings get adopted, he knew that it wasn’t a reality for him, that all he could do was be happy for them. And truly he was.
So when a nasty hospital visit ended with him going to the place of a lady named Shelly, he didn’t know how much his life would change. How in those first few days, her love and kindness filled every inch of the small Manhattan apartment. That she truly meant it when she asked about his day, wanted to hear how he was, and was there on his rough leg days. But Crutchie had refused to get his hopes up. Knowing that she too would tire of him in a matter of time and he would be on to the next foster home. One that wouldn’t have already started feeling like home over the course of a week.
And suddenly weeks had turned into months- Months that had made him feel more alive than he had ever done in his sixteen years. There was no worrying about doing something wrong and being hit for it. No wondering if he would be allowed to eat, or if there was clothes that would fit him. The list went on and on and the thing that astonished him the most was that Shelly loved him, that she provided for him, and cared for him no questions asked.
It was about six months in when Shelly had called him down for dinner, a rather serious look on her face that made Crutchies stomach twist uncomfortably. He had stupidly let himself think that maybe this was where he belonged but the bubbling anxiety told him differently as he sat across from Shelly. She was going to tell him that she couldn’t handle him anymore, that it was time for him to move on to the next family. So Crutchie sat there, trying not to fidget in the chair, waiting for Shelly to break the painful silence when she simply slid a paper across the table to him.
Adoption papers.
She wanted to adopt him. Wanted to become the mom he had always dreamed of. There was no telling how long both of them cried after Crutchie told her yes, yes he’d love for her to adopt him.
After the adoption, days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months of having a home; of having a mother. And before Crutchie knew it, the months had turned into one year, and one year had turned into two years.
And now as he sits across the table from her at Mother’s Day brunch- the word mother holds a new and special meaning. While Shelly might not have given birth to him, might not have raised him for sixteen years, she had given him everything and more a mother could in two years. Safety, love, security, hope, warmth, happiness, kindness, compassion, strength. She had held him while he cried for everything the foster homes had put him through, been by his side when his leg hurt so much he could barely moved. Been front row and center at every choir and drama performance. Had thrown the biggest birthday parties for him. But most of all, she had given him a loving place to call home.
So with a wide grin on his face, he slides her over a neatly wrapped present. And speaks such simple worlds he thought he’d never get to say.
“Happy Mother’s Day. I love you mom.”