We stood in line, my sisters, mother, and I, at the knitting swap in the community center in Los Altos on a Saturday at noon. I had arrived late to the swap, carrying the weight of expectations heavily on my shoulders. My Saturday had been taken over by a mother-daughter outing. A line snaked through the center, with knitters like Ma waiting patiently for the door to open, the thrill of which skein of wool to grab vibrating in the hum.
“We should try to get together every weekend like this. All four of us. For lunch or an activity like this?” said Ma, and a fluttery expectation floated between us.
“Meeting every weekend is tough, Ma. I had to get through laundry this morning and some work. Also, we just met last weekend, for the baby shower at my place. I think once a month is more doable,” I replied. Although still flustered from being late, I could also see in that moment how far I’d come since Ma had moved to the US to live with her daughters and how I didn’t need to be a “perfect daughter.”
I glanced at my two older sisters who stood behind us. They looked so confident and carefree. And then there was me— the youngest sister, recovering people pleaser and juggler of the expectations of being a daughter, daughter-in-law, and mother.
As usual, my sisters drew admiring gazes from other women in line. They were beautifully dressed in their hallmark pearls, silk pants, boots, stunning coats, and red lips. As a knitter, Ma belonged in this line, but we three sisters were clearly interlopers—not knitters by any stretch, just happy receivers of Ma’s prolific knitting of booties, blankets, sweaters, and gloves.
Ma, at 84, lived for these moments when she was surrounded by her three daughters in their 50s. We all lived within a mile of each other, and an outing like this was like fuel in her tank, until the next time. Her eyes shone with pride, a small smile hovered on her lips as she gazed at her three daughters, her birdlike appearance appearing youthful in her puffer jacket.
It had been a lot to keep the tank fueled up recently. The last seven months had been stressful for my husband and I as we grappled with his father having a stroke, his aging mother who also needed to see us periodically, and our adult daughter moving back home. We had thought we would finally enjoy an empty nest but a whole new role had emerged for us—being emotional and physical anchors for the generations of the young and old flanking us.
Ma had moved from India to the United States to live with her three daughters after Dad passed ten years ago. She felt she had no choice. With the end of a loving marriage of 50 years, most recently lived in the bliss of a retired lifestyle in our hometown in India, Ma was transplanted to California. She had felt she had no choice because she had never lived by herself. The love of her life, her best friend, my father was gone. What would she do without him in Jalandhar, when all the remaining reasons to live—her daughters and grandchildren—were in California?
Slowly, like an old bird with new wings, Ma learnt to be independent within the scaffolding of our individual homes in a new context and culture. She figured out the public bus system to the Senior Center in our town, leaving every day to spend mornings knitting at a table and meeting other seniors like herself, volunteering in the cafeteria or store, and becoming a beacon of hope and support for other transplants like herself.
Every six months or so, she packed up her suitcases and moved in with a different daughter, living in our homes, not as a guest, but feeling unsettled just like one. Her belongings became scattered across our three homes—winter clothes stored in my garage, party clothes in another daughter’s guest room, bags of wool from many wool swaps gathering dust at the base of another home’s closet. Despite the upheaval for her and us, Ma’s presence became a joy in our homes, her sweetness and kindness infusing our lives, her love for us shown in myriad ways—knitting, cooking, listening, subsuming her needs to the ebbs and flows of our individual households.
In the early years after Dad’s death, we all had secretly hoped that Ma would meet someone, a companion, a senior like herself, but Ma was closed off to the idea. Any mention or gentle teasing was met with a blush and a look of near panic. The thought was too foreign when all she had known and loved was our father.
She needed a companion; it was clear to all of us, just not to her. When we heard of a male name as she recounted the experiences of the day at the senior center, our ears perked up. Could this be a potential companion? But none materialized because in her mind, we were her companions. She didn’t need anyone else, just her daughters.
“The Senior Center is taking the seniors on cruise in May,” Ma said to me on a visit to my home for lunch one day.
“How exciting! Do you think you’ll go?” I asked, trying to not sound too enthusiastic.
“What will I do with them? I am happy here with you girls,” she replied. “I like your company more than other people’s company.” I felt a pang of loss as I thought of all the experiences Ma had not had in her life as a woman—including traveling with friends or having a new suitor.
Over the years, we sisters had to adjust our expectations of each other when it came to Ma’s care, because we realized that each of us couldn’t be everything to Ma, all the time, even if we wanted to. Ma had stayed with me multiple times over extended periods and initially I had found myself being her emotional anchor, often overcompensating for not being the more practical, task-oriented caregiver. I’d listen to her stories of relatives and friends in India being repeated in vivid detail and pretend to hear them for the first time, because I felt guilty about not having enough time for her.
Meanwhile, my middle sister stepped into managing Ma’s medical appointments and travel while also developing a deep friendship with her. The oldest was the decision maker, the keeper of the Living Will and Ma’s medical directives, her home the primary home when Ma first moved to the US.
But these roles had been left to evolve fuzzily on their own over the years, causing confusion, mismatched expectations, and tiny bits of resentment. Why couldn’t that sister spend more time in the evenings with Ma when she finished her day’s work? Why didn’t the other sister offer to take Ma on her medical appointments? Why was this sister always stressed and busy instead of carving time for Ma?
Slowly, we learnt to be patient with each other, to overcome resentments and come together when it came to Ma and taking care of her needs. Ma’s expectations had helped us see each other’s lives more closely and with more empathy and compassion. We appreciated what we each brought to Ma’s care.
Over the years, I also eased into more realistic expectations of myself in the role of a caregiver. There were things I could do very well for Ma, and for everything else, it was okay to let others take care of them. I wasn’t a terrible daughter if I didn’t take her to every doctor’s appointment or if she stayed longer with another daughter or called another daughter more than me. This wasn’t like the childhood game of who was Ma’s favorite. As she often said, we were all special to her and even our homes were unique to her. There was no comparison or competition.
I also had to let Ma be herself for her to be comfortable in my home, which meant I had to stop hovering over her needs. She wasn’t a guest. She had everything and everyone she needed within a hand’s distance. Once I eased off, I also became more comfortable being myself in her presence.
Once I stopped trying so hard, I saw how every interaction with Ma was like getting an infusion of unconditional love. Her childlike wonder at the successes of my life, my children’s achievements, the comfort of my home, made me forget the stress of what I didn’t have or what I felt was not good enough. I began to relax when she said she enjoyed the lightness and laughter in my home, the conversations in our kitchen as we prepared dinner or as she shared stories from the Senior Center. Her simple words when I talked about my daughter who had moved back home (just be loving and patient) or my sick father-in-law (this is how the end of life is for all of us), or my job (you work too hard) were a balm to my worries.
Every interaction where I thought I was providing her support became an interaction that soothed me and gave me courage and calm. She had become a friend and companion to me.
As Ma went through the haul of wool from the swap, I was struck by the joy on her face. It was infectious. We were together and had found the most beautiful wool for her soon-to-be-born-great grandson. I found that the tiny weight of expectations I felt arriving at the wool swap was gone. How could anyone begrudge this moment?
Maybe in her asking more and more from us as she aged, it was not the weight of Ma’s expectations that I should focus on but the opportunities for love, growth, and healing that the expectations brought with them.
Pushpinder Lubana is an Indian-born anthropologist/writer living in California. Her writing is inspired by her experience of growing up in India, raising two adult children while living across the globe, and working with marginalized communities on issues of equity and justice. She’s working on publishing her debut book, "Daughters, Not Sons," a collection of stories of three generations of women in her family from the early 1900s to present day, exploring themes of generational trauma, resilience, and courage. She has previously published in India Currents, Multilingual magazine, and academic publications. Find her online at pushpinderlubana.com.
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