The first time I met you, I was sixteen years old, and broke with not a penny in my pocket. I could remember it well, as it was a stormy day; drenched in the rain, I came to the countryside manor with nothing but the suitcase in my hands and the maid plaid on my back. Ma had just passed away, bronchitis or something the like, and pa was killed in the Great War. Good people, they were. They've raised me and my sisters well for the time they were on this earth. After that, though, it was a tough time for me—ever since my old masters were bankrupt, I had been wandering from town to town looking for scant work. The Great Depression, they called it. Truly, a terrible time.
I was at my wits end when your family took me in. They were hiring a house-servant, and it happened that I used to work as a maid of sorts with my previous masters. The last one had quit, apparently, and I soon found out why. As of then, I had no money and no future, that poor girl me. I would do any decent work for a pittance, so long as I was granted a place to sleep and eat. A couple of days and a train ride over, there I was, standing before a big, white manor by the lakeside. Marble columns, just like the old master's, except, much taller. It was a proper manor of sorts, complete with everything else you'd expect out of a wealthy place like this. Of course, the interior was complete with splendor as one might except—there was just the grandest staircase, the spiral kind, that stretched from the entrance to the balcony. And there you were beneath the doorway, cradled by your parents, almost as if you were expecting me.
The master of the house was a human, a businessman of some sort, and the mistress, a Creeping Coin. As evident of the mistress' race, it was all but obvious where their riches came from. I knew at that moment that my employment would be secure, surely. But that was not the thought that occupied my mind. Despite this, however, the first one to catch my attention was you. Yes, you, how strange indeed. Not them, my employers, and saviors, whom I owe my life to. You were an inkling of a child, no older than a month. And I'll tell you what, you were an ugly baby—that was my first thought. Jokes aside, your eyes met with mine, and there was a kind of spark between us like I had with nobody else. It was electrifying, as if I had found somebody important to me. A connection, if you will, like we were ordained by God himself for us to meet.
The first months of my employment were not ideal. I was paid, fed, and sheltered, but I was stressed beyond belief. I, a mere girl at the time, had not a clue how to rear a child properly. And that was exactly what my job was. A babysitter—no, rather, a full-time nanny—on top of my estate duties. Without the generous aid of the other staff, I wouldn't have lasted long, that much was certain. I could swear, you were chaos incarnate. There were times where I had to restrain myself from bursting into tears at your mischief. But let this be known—I persevered. I fed you, I slept with you, and I played with you. I was the one who changed your diapers, and I was the one who bathed you. I gave you all the attention the world could offer. After going through all that, I couldn't help but attach myself to you, even if you were a tiny monster.
The months passed by, and the situation had not improved. When you were three months old, you would let out a terrible scream every half hour from evening until dawn; I had hardly slept for those months. It was just terrible when I had to catch short naps in between my shifts. When you were six months old, you had the wonderful habit of projectile vomiting the foods you didn't like; I was on the receiving end of those for quite some time. When you were a year old, God help me, you learned to crawl. And, oh crawl you did. You would end up in another room the moment I took my eyes off of you, and you had a knack for hiding in just the strangest places. Once, even, you had somehow ended up on the roof, of all places. We had to phone the local police that day, and believe me, they were not amused. In spite of our shortcomings, the feeling, no, compulsion to protect you grew stronger with the passing days. We certainly had our ups and downs, but I smiled through it all for you. The reason why? — there was nothing in the world that I would trade for your laughing face.
The seasons changed, and you turned two. I had more or less became accustomed to being a full-time nanny now. I remembered your first steps well; it was the eve of my birthday. The staff and I were celebrating, and it was a humble party with only about a dozen people in attendance. There was a simple cake topped with whipped cream, but that was enough for me. Although we were all paid amply, we did not share the custom of exchanging gifts; I was grateful enough for the opportunities that life had afforded me, but I still could not help be just a little sad; it was my 18th birthday, after all, a special date in one's lifetime when you became an adult. Regardless, as we were enjoying ourselves with the latest gossip, when suddenly, the door to the staff room creaked open. It was a most unusual sight, indeed; there you were, your cheeky little head poking through the doorway, perhaps curious at what an assembly of adults were doing at this hour. You had long spoken your first words—I was there for that too, and it was "teddy", the name of your favorite stuffed animal if I can recall correctly. Of course, since it was well past your bedtime, I went to fetch you immediately. That was when a miracle had happened; in your struggle, you ran away from me. It was clumsy, perhaps a swift toddle would more aptly describe your movement, but you had undoubtedly stood on your own two feet. Running before walking, could you imagine such a sight? I had wished for a birthday present, and what a present that was. From that day forward, I was filled with joy watching you run up and down those regal stairs of ours.
You were now four years old, and I was there too for when you had met the young mistress. We were out on one of our regular strolls as she was moving in next door, and she happened to catch your line of sight. As your gaze met hers, you suddenly stopped, and your eyes shot open in spectacle. The first thing you did when you saw her was run up to her and shout hello; she was frightened, naturally, and began to cry. As her tears dotted her white stainless dress, you apologized with a toothy smile, which only led to more outbursts. Of course, I spanked you later that night until your tush turned beet red. You learned your lesson quickly afterwards not to raise your voice at girls. Anyway, I met her parents, a pair of fine people from what I could gather, and we agreed to take you out on play dates together. In my foresight, I requested the handyman to install a swing set in the garden. You loved that tidy little garden, and I was sure that you loved the time you spent with her. I was rather relieved myself—besides from the free time the young mistress had bought for me. Fearing your mischief would get the better of others and make you unapproachable, my worries were unfounded when you had made your first friend. Despite your first encounter, the young mistress soon became rather fond of you. And there, under that willow tree, you would spend your summer afternoons with her.
On your fifth birthday, you broke my heart. After the festivities had ended, and everyone had gone home, you came to me in my quarters clutching the unopened present you had received from your parents. You could speak basic phrases by now, and the memory of what you had said next burned into me like a scalding iron. I could remember your expression vividly as you spoke those words to me—your face was pallid, your eyes dead like that of a fish, and your mouth hung agape in a slight frown. It was a face that no child should ever make on their birthday. You walked right up to me, and you asked where your parents were. As the words reached me, it felt as if the entirety of my innards sank to my feet. Of course, they were out for a good reason I was sure, but I just couldn't tell you that they had abandoned their little boy on his fifth birthday to go on another business trip. I could only hug you tight in that moment. Then, finally, your face contorted into a soppy mess as the tears rained down your cheeks like a broken dam. As you cried you asked me if I'll go away, like them. And I said no. Child, I won't ever go away, even if you asked me to. It did not justify their actions, but forgive them, please. It was hard times, and they had to make do somehow. Of course, when your parents finally came back, you rushed to greet them, sprinting away from my side. I just felt a little bit hurt in those moments, when I was reminded that they were, in fact, your real parents.
I remember the big toothy grin on your face as you came home from your first day of school. You were six years old by now. When you came home, your overalls were drenched in mud, to my abject horror, and I immediately ordered a bath for the sake of the mansion's carpets. I was a kikimora, after all, and as a caretaker of the estate, there were some things that I absolutely did not compromise on. There, in the bath, you proceeded to tell me about your day during your bath, all while we were covered in bubbles. Oh, how you loved to splash in the water, despite me reprimanding you at least a million times to stop such an unruly act. I would always become collateral damage, as you'd wet my clothes too without fail. Boys would be boys, though. You told me all about your teacher, and her strange accent. You told me about how you made new friends, your first friends other than the young mistress, during recess. You told me about how the young mistress was picked on by the older boys, and how you proudly defended her. That explained the mud; it did not soothe my anger, however. Most importantly of all, you told me that you loved me for the first time. Silly child—that was something I already knew for a long time. You said how one day you'll grow up and marry me, to which I could only reply with a wry smile.
The winter of your 8th year on this Earth was a difficult one. You had fallen into the lake while you were sledding. You were waving at me one moment, and in a flash, you broke through the ice in the next. While the passersby were frozen in their shoes, I stripped myself and dove headfirst under the ice. Words could not describe my horror as I frantically swam through the frigid waters, looking for any sign of life. When I had finally found you, I was suffering from frostbite, but I did not care. With you in my arms, we sprinted to the doctors through the winter snow, to which you were diagnosed with a nasty pneumonia. But I was relieved, oh so relieved. You would make it. You would live. I don't know what I would do if you had died right then and there, in my arms. I still damn those waters to this day; you can see my apparent disapproval every time you go out boating. Regardless, you took off the next half year from school to recover. The young mistress visited you every day until you got better. And of course, I was right there too by your side; I cooked your favorite stews while you lay limp in bed. Pain needled my heart with every blood-curdling cough you gave. You looked miserable, and beyond bored. But I knew you would recover; You were going to be alright. You stumbled over a stone in the road, and it meant nothing. Your life laid far beyond you.
Two years later, when you were ten years old, the master and mistress announced that they were with child, to my great joy. They said that it would be a girl. What an honor would it be to raise your sister alongside you. But you did not care much—you were happy because your parents were home. Due to the pregnancy, the master and mistress abated from their travels, and spent half the year at home, with you. You smiled so much during those days I swore you had wrinkles, at the ripe old age of ten. I was happy that you were happy, and that's all that mattered. You had put me on the back burner, but I did not blame you. I had long accepted that I was not going to replace them, nor did I wish to. However, tragedy struck again. Life would not be so easy. On that fated day of the delivery, everything was perfect. The master had brought in doctors and midwives from only the most respected institutions. In spite of this, however, she was stillborn. You could not fully gasp the situation at hand, but you still understood regardless. At the funeral a week later, you stood by your parents, and you cried with them, mourning the loss of your precious family member. I remember your expression well—you did not cry that day. You had the face of a man who had experienced another hardship in life. You accepted that fact yet remained unscorned by the injustice. That is what I like so much about you, your heart of gold. Your parents did not stay long. They left for another trip soon after. And that was the beginning of when you'd started giving me Mother's Day gifts.
You were thirteen years old, could you believe it? The years began to fly by at this rate. Although you had enrolled in a fine senior high school, you never entered your rebellious phase, at least not with me. You were mischievous as ever around the other staff, and even your own parents, but never with me. My stern voice seemed to be the only thing keeping you in line at our household. I can recall one evening—it was a full moon on a cool spring eve, and the wind was blowing ever so gently. It was near midnight, and I was perched on the porch reading my favorite novel, when I suddenly heard a noise coming from a window nearby. My first thought was that it was a break-in. I was about to fetch for the other staff when I realized that the terrible noise came from your window, of all places. By the time I had arrived on the scene, I saw you tiptoeing away into the young mistress' yard, your bedsheets twisted into a makeshift rope hanging from the windowsill. I watched silently for where this was going, and my hunch was correct. Breath abated; you threw stones at her window before she had finally let you in. Any old fool could guess what happened next. The next day you seemed awfully giddy, and for good purpose too, I bet. I feigned ignorance for all these years, out of consideration for your pride.
You were so happy with the young mistress; however, that relationship wasn't without its bumps along the road. You were sixteen when you two broke up for the first time. You came to me, tears slopping down your cheeks, and we said nothing as you cried into my bosom, and I stroked your back. It was truly a moment of vulnerability for you; you had never even cried this hard in your childhood. You asked me all sorts of questions, ones I couldn't answer. You were so distraught that you couldn't even muster the energy to go to school for the next few days. That's when I drew the line, however. As you remember, I gave you a good helping of tough love that night before sending you off to school the next morning. You must keep moving forward, even if you lost someone you loved; that is a fact of life. Of course, you two had made up, just like you always have and will have. It was all some silly misunderstanding, from what I gather. Above all else, I was so glad that you could share these things with your old maid.
Life could be cruel to you, but you were spared from heartbreak. As you patched things up with the young mistress, you two dated throughout high school. I can still vividly recall all the times I sent you off on your dates; I always made sure that you looked dashing before you went off. It was one cool autumn evening after you had finished a movie date when I was picking you up. We chatted idly about various things—the date, the weather, your schooling. When we were strolling around a back-alley way, a shortcut to the parking lot, you said, that's when it happened. A haggardly man appeared before us and held me at gunpoint, to which then he demanded our valuables. I was afraid. So afraid in that moment. Not for my own life, but for yours. I couldn't let your life end here, in this back-water ditch. You were meant for a long life, one which would end while surrounded by your loved ones. As I stepped in between us, you pushed me out of the way. The man fired the gun, and the terrible noise rang through my ears. My heart sank. Disregarding my own safety, I whipped around to check your bearings, to which you proceeded to sock our assailant right in the face, promptly knocking him out. He had missed. You were 18 then, and that was when you became a proper man in my heart. Gone was the little boy who tracked mud into the house and snuck off to his girlfriend's window in the dead of night, and in his place, was a fine young man. You saved my life that night, you did.
In your twenties, you went to college. Your grades weren't extraordinary in high school, but you had a charming personality, so had the recruiters said. Just like in high school, you played football, to which you were able to secure a scholarship on. However, you threw that all away. You were among the first to volunteer as the war broke out in Europe. Your family—your parents and the young mistress—were devastated, but you saw it as your patriotic duty. I begged and pleaded, but ultimately, I was in no position to choose your fate. I could do nothing but let you go, as I knew that that was what you truly wanted. But that didn't help me any, not at all. It didn't help the sleepless nights as I poured over your letters, waiting eagerly for your safe return. I was glad, however, that you wrote to me. You wrote to me promptly every month throughout the years, never missing a single letter. Sometimes, I'd receive multiples of the same letter, just to make sure that they were delivered to me safely. Of course, I kept them all, multiples and whatnot. You spoke of your adventures through Africa, then Italy, France, and finally Germany. When the war finally ended, you came home a different man. You left for the war as a green sapling, and you came back as a great oak. I was there when you came up those white porch steps in your crisp uniform. When I peered into those eyes, the horrors of war looked back at me. I could only smile, and hold you tight, just to make sure you were alright. That you were really back, here with me.
The war affected us all, but life moved on. You were twenty-six years old when you finally proposed to the young mistress. About time, I had always thought. You had decided to propose to her at dinner—you were going to take her out for that summer's Friday evening and ask the question when the time was right. As I tied your tie, and made sure your suit was speckless, you confided in me that it had made you more nervous than any shell or flak gun. I smiled in response and told you that it would be all right. I cherished these little moments between us, but it made me realize something—there was a finite amount of these little treasures, and they were running out. You would get married, soon enough, and move out. At the ceremony, when you had said the words "I do", I was no longer the most important woman in your life from that moment forward. The thought saddens me, but I nonetheless eagerly look forward to the next chapter in your life. Don't worry about me, child; the next great adventure awaited you. You had your whole life ahead of you. You would leave the nest, far, far away from this old mother bird. And I would be alone.
Your twenties went by, and you were cusping your thirties. Soon after you had gotten married, you moved away from your parents. Our parting wasn't as dramatic as I had anticipated—you were only moving a few towns down the road, after all. I could visit you every weekend if I so desired. But that would be overburdening, wouldn't it? I wasn't even your real mother, and yet I fret like I was. Parenting was often strange yet rewarding like that. Speaking of which, you had experienced it firsthand yourself—the young mistress had given birth to a healthy boy. It was rather nostalgic watching you overcome the same trials of child rearing as I did so many years ago. Except, with you on the giving end this time, you realized a newfound appreciation for me, which was long overdue. Jokes aside, you had grown so much in those years as a father, and as a man. Of course, given a family of your stature, it wouldn't hurt to hire a nanny or two. When I asked who would be watching over the child while you and the young mistress were away on business, you were silent, and simply looked up at me, flabbergasted as if it were obvious. I was overwhelmed at the moment that you decided to trust your child to me. I never had any men in my life, and it was already too late for me to start at this point. To be able to raise your child as my grandchild was my privilege. I could take part in my own family, even if we were not related by blood.
Your son grew up in what felt like an instant. He was far tamer than his father; perhaps he got his civility from his mother. Now firmly in your thirties, you were no longer the young man that I looked after, but a proper adult with his own career and family. You worked tirelessly at your father's enterprise and rose through the ranks steadily. Some called it nepotism, but from the way you visited me less and less, I could tell that you were running yourself ragged over the phone. This was your golden age—your son was growing up healthily, you had a beautiful wife and parents who supported you with all your life. Of course, there were still problems, but they were the kind where you had a quarrel with your wife over who would take out the garbage, or the kind where you made a mistake at work and your boss reprimanded you; nothing unmanageable, only mundane. Like all good things do, this would all come to an end one winter evening. I remembered it well—it was nearly two in the morning when I had received a phone call. You had just been informed that your parents were in a serious automobile incident—it was snowing rather heavily that night, and the roads must've been frozen over—and they were currently undergoing life-saving procedures at the hospital. The young mistress was at home, taking care of the baby, and you were there with them, your parents; you didn't know what to do, so you called me. I rushed to the hospital, and when you greeted me, your voice was panicked and unsteady, completely unlike the cheerful sound that I was used to. After what seemed like an eternity later, the doctors stepped out of the ER to pass you the news; your parents had passed. You crumbled into a disheveled mess, and I held you tight. Oh, so tight. We embraced, and in that moment, we recognized each other as mother and son, after all these years. Everything after that was a blur—it all moved so quickly, yet the days felt slow. After you inherited the property, you made me the head maid; I couldn't care about the prestige nor the pay raise, however. All I wanted to do was to preserve your home, your childhood. What's more, you inherited the company too, becoming its owner. With everything in a mess after your parents' passing, you decided that it would be best to move to the city, where its headquarters was located. I would not see you in person again until today.
You urged me to retire, but I could never quit being your mother. You were my family now. I viewed you as a son, and you viewed me as a mother; that barrier of employment between us had long dissolved. You phoned from time to time, but with your position as owner of your family's conglomerate, you could spare little time for me. I understood that, and I felt no ill will toward you; you were simply pursuing your own happiness. But my time is cutting short, my son. One evening as I swept the stairs, the same one that I stood on during our first meeting, I felt a cough come up. When I reflexively put my hand over my mouth, a streak of red stained my palms. I was getting up in my years, but I had a faint feeling that something was wrong. So, I made that dreaded trip to the doctors, and received my diagnosis. It was cancer. And not the kind that could be treated, either. It was unfair, but that was life. My time was up. When I told you that I was ill, you rushed back from the city to see me. I could not be any happier in this moment; as I lay on the hospital bed, I was surrounded by my loved ones, my family. There was no better way for me to go. I passed on a sleepy Sunday afternoon; you wept as I breathed my last.
Thank you, my son. For giving me this life.
You were my brilliant little light.
Forever and always, I love you.