Mother’s Day

On my way home from the grocery store today, I saw an older woman pushing a cart up a hill. For a moment, I assumed she might be unhoused, moving what little she owned from one place to another.

A heartfelt Mother's Day message is displayed on a letter board surrounded by vibrant tulip flowers and scattered rose petals.

And then—just like that—my thoughts shifted to my mother.

My sweet, hardworking mother never learned to drive. She carried heavy grocery bags for blocks, no matter the weather, no matter how tired she was. Wherever we lived, she made sure it was near a bus line so she could get to work and back again—because she had no other choice.

Six children. No real help. No safety net.

As I drove my car up that same hill, something in me caught. The contrast between her life and mine hit me hard. Life may have seemed simpler back then, but it wasn’t easier. It was relentless. Exhausting in ways I don’t think I fully understood until much later.

I found myself speaking out loud to her.

“Thank you, Mom.”

Thank you for your strength. For your sacrifices. For carrying far more than groceries up those hills.

And then the harder truth surfaced.

She endured a man who could be both loving and terrifying—a father shaped by war, an untreated case of PTSD, a binge drinker who lived somewhere between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. As children, we never knew which version would walk through the door.

I used to be angry with her for staying.

But I didn’t understand.

Not then.

She had no real options. A woman alone with six children? Doors didn’t open for women like her. They closed. Society offered no safety net, no independence, no real way out. She wasn’t weak—she was trapped.

And today, in that car, I apologized to her.

Out loud.

For the silent judgments I carried as a child…for not seeing her courage sooner…for not understanding the impossible choices she faced.

Mother’s Day has been complicated for me ever since my son died on this day. Grief has a way of reshaping holidays, softening some edges while deepening others.

But today, something shifted.

Despite the chaos of my childhood, I loved my mother with my whole heart. And I needed her to know that—again.

That car ride became a not so quiet conversation between two worlds…one filled with memory, the other with gratitude.

If you are lucky enough to still have your mother here, be kind to her. Be patient. Tell her you love her—out loud, often, and without hesitation.

Because one day, when she crosses that unseen bridge between here and whatever comes next, the silence she leaves behind will echo in ways you never expected.

And you will miss her. Every single day.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers—those with us, and those watching over us from the other side of the rainbow bridge.

With warmest aloha, Shirley My book, The Longshoreman’s Daughter: From Chaos and Abuse to Survival – A Childhood Memoir, will be released soon. It is my hope that it brings comfort, understanding, and healing to those who grew up in circumstances like mine.