What My Mother Doesn't Know
Every Sunday, I call my maman in Montreal. We talk about the weather, my imaginary office job, her garden, anything except what I actually do for work. She thinks I'm in "event planning" in New York, which isn't technically a lie. I do plan events. They just happen to be very intimate events for two people.
Last Sunday, she said something that made me pause: "I worry you work too much, ma chérie. When will you make time for love?"
If only she knew how much of my life revolves around love - just not the kind she means.
She doesn't know that I spent last Tuesday afternoon teaching a shy accountant how to give compliments that don't sound like performance reviews. That I've perfected the art of making small talk feel like meaningful conversation. That I can spot loneliness from across a restaurant and know exactly how to ease it with the right question at the right moment.
Maman raised me to believe love was about finding your person, settling down, having babies, growing old together. The whole traditional package she and Papa built so beautifully. She doesn't understand that I've found a different way to spread love around - not the concentrated, exclusive kind, but something more like sunlight, warming whoever needs it most.
She doesn't know that last month I helped a recent divorcee remember he was funny. That I've held space for men mourning parents they never got to say goodbye to. That I've watched grown men rediscover wonder just by the way I arrange flowers or describe the taste of wine.
When she asks about my love life, I want to tell her: Maman, I am surrounded by love. I create it daily. I help people remember they're worthy of tenderness and attention and delight. Isn't that a kind of calling too?
But instead I say, "Je suis heureuse, Maman. Don't worry about me."
She doesn't know that happiness can come in forms she never imagined. That purpose isn't always a straight line from Point A to Point B. That sometimes love is about the moments you create rather than the life you build.
She doesn't know that when she tells me about the neighbor's daughter getting engaged, I feel genuine joy, not envy. That when she describes Papa bringing her morning coffee the same way for forty years, I understand that's beautiful, but so is bringing momentary magic to someone who's forgotten they deserve it.
Maybe someday I'll have what my parents have. Maybe I'll find someone who wants to grow old with the woman who spent years perfecting the art of making others feel seen. Or maybe I'll keep being the person who reminds people that connection is possible, that romance isn't dead, that they matter.
Either way, I'm not waiting for my "real" life to begin. This is my real life, and it's full of more love than most people experience in a lifetime - it's just distributed differently than anyone expected.
What Maman doesn't know is that her daughter turned out exactly like she raised me to be: someone who believes love matters and acts on that belief every single day.
She just never imagined it would look like this.
With grateful complexity,
Celeste