Today I’m sharing an excerpt from my diary. I don’t know yet if this post will stay online for long, but my life has been turned upside down in just a few days, and I wanted to share this event. I finally met my mom.

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Two weeks ago

I still can’t believe I’m writing this.

That night, I was in bed, under my blanket, with my sketchbook on my lap. I was drawing another faceless woman. I don’t know why I always do this. Maybe because faces scare me. Maybe because I still miss some faces I’ve never known.

My phone rang.

A number I didn’t recognize.

Normally, I hate answering these kinds of calls. But with my job at the hospital, I’ve gotten into the habit of picking up. It could be a patient. An emergency. A colleague. Someone who needs me.

So I answered.

“Hello?”

There was a silence.

Then a woman’s voice said my name.

“Ilona…?”

I knew right away that something was wrong. Not because the voice was threatening. On the contrary. It was soft. Trembling. Lost. But there was that accent. That way of saying my name the way they say it in Poland. The way no one says it here in London.

I asked who it was.

And she answered:

“It’s Vera.”

“Vera.”

I felt my heart stop.

Vera, that’s the name written on my papers. The name I saw in the files when they talked about my “biological mother.” Vera, fifteen years old when she had me. Vera, who disappeared at the maternity ward. Vera, the woman I called my biological mother for years because the word “mother” burned my throat too much.

I hung up.

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t even try.

I just hung up.

Since then, I can’t stop thinking about that voice.

I want to say I’m angry. I probably am. But it’s not just anger. It’s worse than that. It’s a mixture of fear, curiosity, shame, envy, and sadness. A kind of knot in my chest.

I wonder why she’s calling now.

I wonder what she wants.

I wonder if she’s been thinking about me for twenty years.

I wonder if she’s regretted it.

And I kind of hate myself for wanting to know.

A few days later

I talked to my boyfriend about it again today.

I know I talk about Vera too much. I know. I hear my own voice on repeat, saying the same things, the same questions, the same fears. But I can’t stop. It’s like that phone call opened a door in my head and now the wind is blowing in everywhere.

At first, he listened to me.

Well… he pretended to.

Today, he’d had enough.

He put his controller down on the table, sighed, and said:

“Are you going to keep talking about this? She’s your mother, yes, okay. But she abandoned you. Move on.”

Move on.

Like it’s an old sweater.

Like it’s a bad movie.

As if you could just move on when you’ve been abandoned at the maternity ward, when you’ve grown up in foster care, when you’ve learned too early that adults can be scary.

I think something broke inside me.

Not violently.

Calmly.

Maybe that’s the most worrying thing.

I got up. I opened the apartment window. Third floor. A nice view of the sidewalk, actually.

He asked me what I was doing.

I grabbed his gaming laptop. His precious laptop. The one he loved more than some of our conversations.

I told him:

“I’m moving on.”

Then I threw it out the window. Maybe I should have thrown some clothes first to cushion the impact? Nah.

The sound when it shattered on the pavement was absolutely magnificent.

After that, I threw his things away.

His sneakers. His sweatshirts. His bag. His cables. His headphones. Even his stupid collectible figurine that lost its head when it hit the sidewalk.

He was yelling.

Me, I felt strangely calm.

When he left, I closed the window. I locked the door. I sat down on the floor in the middle of the living room.

And then I cried.

Not because he was gone.

Because I realized that I had once again allowed myself to be unloved simply because I was afraid of being alone.

I don’t want to do that anymore.

I don’t want to beg anyone to listen to me anymore.

The Night of the Breakup

Maelle came over with Luca.

I don’t think I’ve ever loved someone as much as I did when I saw them walk in with bags full of ice cream, chips, chocolate, and totally useless but perfectly necessary stuff.

Maelle took me in her arms without asking.

Luca looked out the window, then at the remains of the computer downstairs.

He said:

“Nice trajectory.”

I laughed.

A silly little laugh, broken, but it was a laugh.

We settled down on the sofa. Maelle covered me with a blanket. Luca gave me a tub of ice cream like it was medicine. They talked about bad movies, symbolic revenge, food, everything and nothing.

Then I brought up Vera again.

I almost expected them to sigh.

But Maelle didn’t sigh.

She just looked at me with that serious gentleness she sometimes has, and she asked:

“Do you want to call her back?”

I didn’t know how to answer.

Or rather, I knew all too well.

Yes.

No.

Maybe.

I was afraid she’d lie to me. Afraid she’d be like my father. Afraid she’d ask me for something. Afraid I’d hate her. Afraid I wouldn’t be able to hate her. Afraid I’d want to forgive her.

Maelle told me I had to call her. Not to give her my whole heart. Just so that number wouldn’t eat me alive anymore.

So I picked up my phone.

I looked for the incoming call.

I pressed the button.

One ring.

Two rings.

She answered.

I panicked.

I hung up.

I think I turned bright red with embarrassment. I begged Maelle to call back for me.

And she did.

She spoke to Vera calmly. She explained that I was nervous, that I might want to see her, that I was scared. She arranged a meeting for tomorrow at 3 p.m., in a café near Hyde Park.

I just sat there, unable to breathe.

Maelle decided I would wear her yellow hat so Vera would recognize me.

I protested.

Of course.

I hate that hat. It’s yellow. Too yellow. An almost insulting yellow.

Maelle told me I’d thrown a computer out the window and that my dignity had survived worse.

Luca asked what Vera would wear.

A red jacket.

Tomorrow at 3:00 PM, I’m going to see my mother.

I can’t sleep.

I think I’m going to throw up. I threw up.

The next day — before the date

I’m wearing the yellow hat.

I look like a traumatized chick.

Maelle says I’m pretty.

Luca calls me “the gorgeous chick.”

I’m going to kill them both.

Maybe after the date.

We arrived at the café ten minutes early. Of course. Ten minutes too early. Ten minutes during which I had time to imagine fifty ways to escape.

We sat by the window. All three of us on the same side of the table. Me by the glass, wedged between Maelle and the wall.

They claim it wasn’t to stop me from leaving.

They’re terrible liars.

I’m keeping an eye on the street.

I have to admit, the yellow hat idea was good. Nobody wears a yellow hat like that. On the other hand, Vera’s idea was disastrous.

A red jacket.

Seriously.

I feel like all of London has decided to wear red today. Red jackets, red sweaters, red shirts, burgundy coats, red scarves. Even the buses are stressing me out.

I told Maelle that “wearing red” was about as accurate as “I’ll be a person with legs.”

She tried not to laugh.

She failed.

Then Luca noticed a woman outside.

A woman approaching the café door, then walking away. Then coming back. Then looking at her phone. Then walking back again.

I said it wasn’t her.

Because she wasn’t actually wearing a red jacket.

She was wearing a denim jacket covered in embroidered red roses.

And that jacket…

Oh my God.

That jacket was sublime.

I heard myself saying I’d kill for a jacket like that.

Luca advised me to avoid murder on the day of my family reunion.

But in my mind, it couldn’t be Vera.

That woman was too elegant.

Too beautiful.

Too clean.

I know it’s not right, but in my imagination, my mother resembled my father. Or rather, what he had become when he came to find me at my last foster home in Poland. He had a knife. He smelled of alcohol, urine, and the street. He spoke incoherently. He said I had to come with him, that I belonged to him.

I had agreed to speak to him only so he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.

The police arrived soon after.

But the smell stayed with me.

Since then, I think a part of me has convinced itself that my mother must be the same. Dirty. Broken. Dangerous. Lost.

Not that woman.

Not that woman with the rose-patterned jacket.

Then she came in.

She looked around the room.

She saw the yellow hat.

She looked at me.

And I understood.

It was her.

Vera.

My mother.

I felt like the air was leaving my body.

Maelle took my hand. She whispered in my ear that everything was going to be alright. That I wasn’t alone.

My heart slowed a little.

Not much.

But enough to keep me from running away.

Luca invited Vera to sit down.

She approached gently, as if I were a wounded animal she was afraid of scaring.

Maybe that’s exactly what I am.

After the meeting

I don’t know where to begin.

I think I’ve met her.

I think I’ve truly met my mother.

At first, we talked about silly things. The weather. London. Coffee. My job at the hospital. She asked me simple, careful questions, as if each sentence were fragile.

And I answered.

I don’t know how I managed it.

She told me that blonde suited me.

That struck me.

I asked her how she could know it wasn’t my natural color. After all, I had no hair when she abandoned me at the maternity ward.

She looked down.

And she told me she’d seen me.

When I was sixteen.

I think my heart stopped a second time.

She told me her story.

She told me she grew up in a violent family. That she ran away at thirteen. That she met my father during that time away. That he became her boyfriend, her drug dealer, her poison, her prison.

She told me he held her captive with alcohol, drugs, and fear.

She told me she got pregnant at fifteen.

And then, something strange happened.

I wanted to be angry.

I had been preparing for this anger my whole life.

I had imagined this moment. I had imagined asking her how she could have left me. How she could have gone away. How she could have gone on living while I grew up in houses where I never felt safe.

But when I looked at her, I didn’t see a monster.

I saw a terrified teenager.

She told me that at the maternity ward, she had looked at me. That I was tiny. That I had my fist pressed against my cheek. She told me she understood that if she went back to my father, I would grow up surrounded by drugs, beatings, and shouting. She had nothing. No money. No home. No family. So she left.

She thought someone better than her would take me in.

That sentence hurt.

Someone better.

I don’t know what to do with that.

Because the truth is, I haven’t always been protected. The truth is, there are things a child should never experience. Things I’m not ready to tell her yet. Not like this. Not today.

But I believe she didn’t abandon me because she didn’t love me.

I think she left because she was convinced she was a danger to me.

And I don’t know if that fixes anything.

But it changes everything.

She explained that a few years later, her uncle found her. He helped her get off drugs and alcohol. He gave her a place to stay. He helped her survive, then to live.

She also told me she had searched for me for a long time.

And that she found me when I was sixteen.

I asked why she hadn’t come.

I was angry then. Really angry.

She didn’t defend herself.

She said:

“Because you seemed happy.”

She had seen me from afar. Leaving school. In a park. Once with a friend, laughing. She had seen my natural hair, that light golden brown I now hide under blonde.

She hadn’t dared to enter my life.

She had wondered what right she had to disrupt my existence when I seemed to have finally found balance.

I don’t know if it was the right decision.

I don’t know if I forgive her.

But when she told me that, something warmed inside me.

She had seen me.

For all those years when I thought I had never mattered to her, she had watched me from afar. She had known my hair color. She had heard my laugh. She had existed somewhere, with my name etched in her heart.

Her uncle died a month ago. Cancer.

Before he died, he made her promise to try to live happily. And to do that, he told her she should try to contact me.

So she called.

And I hung up.

She told me she thought she deserved it.

I think I cried then.

Or maybe I’d already started.

I don’t remember.

At one point, I realized that Maelle and Luca weren’t next to me anymore. They’d sat down at a nearby table. They were pretending to give us some privacy while keeping an eye on us like two very indiscreet bodyguards.

I laughed.

Vera did too.

It’s strange to write this.

I laughed with my mother.

And then I realized something else.

We’d switched to Polish without even realizing it.

At first, we spoke English. Then the Polish words came naturally, as if my body had been saving them for her. This language, which sometimes seemed heavy, sometimes painful, became gentle for a few hours.

We talked until the café closed.

Three hours.

Three hours with Vera.

Three hours with my mother.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid of a word.

Mom.

It’s still too big for me.

But it exists now.

Last night

It was 8 p.m.

I went home.

Maelle and Luca walked me home. They didn’t ask too many questions. I think they understood that I was still struggling to find the words.

Maelle just asked me if I was okay.

I replied that I didn’t know, but that I was feeling better than yesterday morning.

That’s true.

I think so.

I’m hungry, but I can’t eat.

I’m sitting on my bed with my phone in my hands. I’m looking at her number. I haven’t saved it yet. I don’t know whether to write “Vera” or “Mom.”

Just thinking about it makes me want to cry.

I wanted to call her.

I wanted to hear her voice.

I wanted to know if she was still thinking about me.

And then my phone rang.

It was her.

I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt.

She told me she didn’t want to bother me.

I told her she wasn’t bothering me.

She said she was thinking about me.

I told her I was too.

She asked if I’d like to see her again soon. She made it clear she didn’t want to rush things. That she could wait. That it would be whenever I wanted.

I looked around my apartment.

The window I threw my ex’s things out of.

My drawings everywhere.

My living room, still a bit of a mess.

My life, a mess.

And I thought of her, in front of the café, with her denim jacket covered in red roses.

I asked her:

“Have you eaten?”

She said no.

Me neither.

So I gave her my address.

I don’t know what came over me.

Well, actually, I do.

I think I wanted her to come.

Half an hour later, she was at my door with a mountain of Chinese takeout.

She told me she’d panicked and grabbed a little bit of everything.

I looked at the bags and said,

“Mom, you’ve bought enough to feed the whole hospital.”

The word just came out.

Mom.

She froze.

Me too.

For a second, I was afraid I’d made a mistake. That I’d acted too hastily. That I’d given myself away.

Then she started to cry.

Silent tears.

She asked if she could come in.

I stepped aside.

I told her:

“Yes, Mom.”

I think that’s when something started.

Not something perfect.

Not something simple.

Just something.

We ate sitting on the floor, around the low table. There were too many noodles, too much rice, too many dumplings, too much sauce. She doesn’t know how to use chopsticks properly. I teased her in Polish. She laughed. She spilled soy sauce on her jeans and admitted she was flustered.

I laughed too.

I didn’t think I’d laugh so much last night.

We talked for hours.

Not about everything.

Not yet.

There are parts of my story I can’t let her into right now. Memories that still smell of fear. Things I can’t say without breaking. She didn’t force me. She didn’t ask any questions I wasn’t ready to answer.

She simply listened.

I think that’s perhaps the beginning of forgiveness.

Not forgetting.

Not excusing.

Just agreeing to open a door.

Very late, I realized I was almost falling asleep while talking. Her eyelids were heavy too. I told her she could stay and sleep there.

She said she didn’t want to invade my space.

I told her she wasn’t invading my space.

We settled down on the sofa. At first, keeping a little distance. Then, I don’t know how, my head rested on her shoulder.

She didn’t move.

As if she was afraid I’d change my mind.

Very gently, she put her arm around me.

I let her.

I fell asleep in my mother’s arms.

I’m writing this sentence and my hands are trembling.

I fell asleep in my mother’s arms.

I’m twenty years old.

And last night, for the first time in my life, I think I understood what that word could mean.

Today, and tomorrow, everything won’t be fixed.

I know that.

There will still be anger. Questions. Silences. Things impossible to undo. You can’t turn back twenty years in one evening with Chinese noodles and a red rose jacket.

But last night, she was there.

My mother was there.

And I didn’t run away.

Perhaps that’s the miracle.

Not a happy ending.

A beginning.

And for me, this beginning is already beyond hope.

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Phew, it was so exhausting writing all this. I still have tears in my eyes. I still can’t believe I found my mom and that everything went well. It’s a heatwave, it’s a million degrees, but she left me her jacket and I’m wearing it anyway; it smells like her. I need this to convince myself that what I experienced is real. I’ll leave you here; I need some time to myself.

Hugs and kisses, see you soon!