“Mutter,” by Esther Yi
Key takeaways
- But I tell her she is not my mother—never was and never will be.
- With a sigh, the German lady picks up her bags and waddles away.
- “I’ve seen that word before,” she says, pointing at my sign.
Illustration by Julie Jonquet-Caunes Save this story Save this story Save this story Save this story I’m waiting for my mother at the airport, holding a strip of cardboard above my head that says “mutter.” An older German lady emerges from the sliding doors and wanders up to me with a dazed look, relieved that she can finally drop her bags to the floor. But I tell her she is not my mother—never was and never will be. I add that I don’t love my mother just because she’s my mother, though being my mother certainly helps, since it means she’s always been around, and so I got to know her, and it was only then that I came to love her.
With a sigh, the German lady picks up her bags and waddles away. At that moment, my mother comes marching out of the doors. In lieu of a greeting, she informs me that she doesn’t have any checked luggage and impatiently waves us away from the airport, from all of this. She’s carrying only a tote bag, but it’s so heavy—taut and bulging, like there could be a bowling ball inside—that it’s making half her body sag.
“I’ve seen that word before,” she says, pointing at my sign.