How Mother Figures Impact Our Lives

Ruth lied to my parents. When she interviewed for the job of taking care of my four older siblings and me, she said she had lots of experience caring for children. Truth was, she’d never held a baby before in her life. She let me stay up late on Sunday nights, curled up next to her in an overstuffed chair, watching our favorite television shows. She let me “drive” her old green Ford, holding me on her lap while I steered. She taught me to make Norwegian wreath cookies and Swedish meatballs from scratch. She taught me that nobody is perfect. I experienced unconditional love and so did she.

JUDITH SHAPIRO, 73, McLEAN, VA.

Mrs. Halbeck, my third- and fourth-grade teacher in Kansas City, Mo., in the 1960s, made no secret that she found me delightful, and her support and affection meant the world to me. I clung to her optimism and cheerful approval. To this day, more than a half-century later, I still have a postcard from New York that she sent every child in her third-grade class.

ZEVA OELBAUM, 69, MONTCLAIR, N.J.

I met Jacqueline during my junior year abroad in France. She needed an English tutor for her son, and I was happy to make some easy spending money. I was immediately enthralled by her characteristically French stubbornness and her uncharacteristic willingness to scoop me up as her “petite Américaine.” Jacqueline introduced me to kir royale, pâté on toast — bien grillé!— and the dazzling, twinkling magnificence of a Paris-by-night tour in her car. She was a bright star to all who knew her — brighter than all the lights in Paris combined. It’s now a little dimmer without her.

JESSICA CHAHINE, 47, SOUTH LYON, MICH.

My first year teaching, I was living in a new country and had been married less than a week. My mentor teacher Patty quickly became my confidante and my “mama.” Before the first day of school, I realized with growing dread that I had no idea what to do with my students. I tried to be cool and asked her if she had a minute. Patty smiled and said, “Pull up a chair, darlin’, this will take more than a minute!”

In the coming years, she taught me how to make pie crust, how to use binoculars and to wear a blazer for parent-teacher conferences. Patty drove for hours to cheer me on at marathons and triathlons, and folded me into her family completely. Recently, Patty and her husband have had some health challenges. I call most days, and have flown there four times in the last seven months. It’s my turn to support Patty.

KELLY SANDOVAL, 48, SQUAMISH, B.C., CANADA

I come from a multicultural background, but the Puerto Rican side of the family lived far away. Alina, my best friend’s mom when I was in the third grade, taught me so much about my culture. Going to the store was a lesson in salsa music, visiting a theme park was a vocabulary lesson (“Fallon, ven aqui!”), taking a shower was a lesson in how to care for my hair and holidays were a lesson in large family gatherings and delicious food. All of these little things added up to a more full picture of my culture. Without Alina, I wouldn’t know a part of myself.

FALLON ALVAREZ, 35, PORTLAND, ORE.

My mother died when I was 19, one month before I was supposed to study abroad in Cambridge, England. When I showed up, Linda, my host mother, picked me up from the bus stop and made me tea and crumpets. The first thing she told me was that I could cry whenever I needed to. A dam broke, and I just cried and cried. Even though I was only supposed to stay with Linda’s family for a couple of days, they picked me up every weekend from the university for the remainder of the semester. We’re still in touch 25 years later, and whenever I see Linda, she still treats me like her own daughter.

BELLA MUNTZ KIRCHNER, 44, AUSTIN, TEXAS

Tenzin became our nanny when I returned to work, five months after giving birth to my youngest daughter. She taught my baby to take a bottle and solved her dry scalp with coconut oil. She planned fun adventures for my toddler around the city. When I contracted the coxsackievirus from my toddler and my throat was raw with sores, she made me a beef broth from scratch with Tibetan dumplings and sent me to bed. She guided me through my early days of motherhood, understanding in a way I didn’t that new mothers need mothering as much as their babies do.

CHANTAL TORTOROLI ROBERTS, 41, LARCHMONT, N.Y.

Mom passed away when I was 5, and I was mothered by three unmarried aunts and two older cousins in an all-female household. It was a caring, nurturing but feisty upbringing that I got from this ragtag bunch of artsy idealists, who raised me to believe that I could be anything I wanted to be and do anything I set my mind to.

ANNETTE EUFEMIO, 55, MANILA, PHILIPPINES

My fifth-grade teacher, Miss Jordan, was a powerful example of what a Black woman could be. Miss Jordan believed that education did not just include reading, writing and arithmetic. She introduced us to culture. Somehow, she put together trips to Radio City Music Hall and other events at little or no cost to our families. When I became a high school teacher decades later, I often told my students about how impactful she had been on my life. Sadly, I never got to tell Miss Jordan any of this. When I was in sixth grade, she became gravely ill and died.

MARJORIE GEORGE, 60, BROOKLYN, N.Y.

Shortly after college, I moved to Japan to teach English. A co-worker named Yoshibe looked after me. I spoke no Japanese, and she spoke no English. But for three years, with humor and candor, Yoshibe-san managed to orient me to the routines and protocols of a Japanese office, and to life in a country entirely new to me. She had me over to eat yakisoba and grilled fish (my favorites) with her husband and young daughters. Early on, she pointed out that instead of the word for the stamp I used to sign my name (inkan), I had used the word for jock itch (inkin). We were both mortified! As I prepare for a trip to Japan, where I will have dinner with Yoshibe-san for the first time in almost 30 years, I’m not sure how to adequately thank my Japanese mom. But when I see her, I will sure try.

MARY HAYES, 56, INDIANAPOLIS, IND.

My mother died on my 16th birthday. She left me many “mothers.” Flossy, Frankye, Viola and Lois. Aunt Flossy was five years older than my mom and was her best friend. She had worked on her feet since she was 14, as a waitress and soda jerker, retiring at age 84. Mom and I lived with Frankye and her three children in Walla Walla, Wash., while my father was in the state penitentiary. Viola, who lived next door to us in Northern Idaho and belonged to a Swedish “homesteader” family, embraced me as if I were her own. Lois, who will be 95 soon, taught me that it was possible to enjoy a hamburger without ketchup. I lived with her family in Seattle for three summers. I am blessed to have had each teach me, love me and guide me.

DOUG MOURER, 74, MANSON, WASH.

I walked into the Alcoholics Anonymous room as a desperate and depleted 18-year-old alcoholic. Colleen, a 32-year-old mom of two, became my sponsor. She was the first woman to love me unconditionally. She encouraged me to dream, and helped me navigate college — from a G.E.D., to a bachelor’s to a master’s in education. She taught me about money and kept me from repeating generational poverty. I’m now a high school teacher, mother and mentor to other young women. My superpower is believing in teenagers, thanks to Colleen, who believed in me.

WENDY RICE, 55, BELLINGHAM, WASH.

Dr. Greenberg had high standards, and her history class was one of the best educational experiences of my life. She shared her love of Bach with me, and this sparked a deeper interest in classical music and the church. Dr. Greenberg passed away in 2023, and I am looking forward to honoring her friendship, terrific sense of humor, great intellect and her love of England by singing during a choir residency at Gloucester Cathedral this summer.

MANUEL FIGALLO, 54, ARLINGTON, VA.

My sister Rita was born six years before I was. If I had a nightmare and woke my mother up, she would tell me to climb into bed with Rita. I loved my mother, who was sweet but overwhelmed with raising four children while my dad worked long hours six days a week. Rita was always there, always loving. She introduced me to the library and cleaned me up when I was in second grade and had an upset stomach in the school bathroom. I was the maid of honor at her small wedding, and she was my matron of honor. Once, my fiancé and I were in a movie theater watching a comedy. After a few minutes, I leaned over to him and said, “My sister is here.” I could detect her laughter even in the crowded theater.

HARRIET LISS, 83, STAMFORD, CONN.

My mother was diagnosed with brain cancer when I was a senior in college. A small group of her friends circled around me. One started a travel fund so that I could visit with my mom on the weekends. Another donated money after college so that I could get grief counseling. Later, when I was in graduate school and working full-time, they organized a monthly breakfast with me. They never uttered a word about their own busy lives or families. They sat and listened, never intrusive, always supportive.

MARY EILEEN CONNERY McDONNELL, 52, GEORGETOWN, MASS.

When I was 13, my mother wrote to me at camp to say we had new “beatnik neighbors.” He was an interior designer, she a fashion photographer’s stylist. I thought they were incredibly chic and glamorous. I was a latchkey kid, so it was very easy to ring their bell after school. I babysat their gorgeous 2-year-old daughter. They took me antiquing. Wilma taught me how to cook, bake and sew while she played Ella Fitzgerald and Judy Garland records. Then my world collapsed. Wilma had a bout of cancer just before they moved in and suffered a recurrence about two years later. She died just short of her 32nd birthday. I have never gotten over that loss. But I carry her lessons, so she is alive in me.

MADLYN DICKENS, 78, THE BRONX, N.Y.

Her name was Mrs. Dunn — my best friend is her daughter — and she took me under her wing. She taught me that when you can’t get in through the front door, there is always a side door, or a window, to slip into the places you wanted to go. When I was flunking out of high school, she and my guidance counselor had me apply for art school. I got in. Hers was the sofa I landed on when things got messy. Hers was the supportive voice saying, “Oh, Gen!” when I made great strides. Before her Parkinson’s got bad, I was able to tell her, “Your thumbprints are all over every inch of my life and who I’ve become.”

GENEVIEVE GEER, 51, MARATHON, N.Y.

I started working at the grocery store in my college town when I was 18. During that year I also moved into my first apartment, away from the guidance of my mother. Grocery shopping by myself left me confused and overwhelmed. My co-worker, in her 60s, explained some easy meals I could make, placing cans of beans and bags of greens in my shopping cart. That act of kindness touched me. She showed up at my house with Cava and Spanish cheeses the week before I moved to Spain.

ANYA SANCHEZ, 20, BOULDER, COLO.

In the late 1980s, my parents returned to India from where we lived in Toronto. They needed me to get married — I was 21 — so I got to live with my “mami” (my mom’s brother’s wife). She gently cared for me, from the buffalo milk she boiled, cooled and put in a tall glass with chocolate and sugar to the letters she wrote in longhand to prospective suitors every Sunday, when the matrimonial section of The Times of India arrived. When I decided to take a stand and remain single, she cheered me on. And when, 10-plus years later, I met my husband-to-be, he went to Delhi to meet her and get her approval. It’s been eight years since cancer carried her body away, but her spirited reminder — “Be bold, Kitty” — still carries me through life.

KITTY CHACHRA, 58, WATERLOO, ONTARIO, CANADA