She cried a little when we talked about her marriage. She said she and Dad had fallen in love back then, and although she wouldn’t say it now I knew she and Dad had grown apart over the years. But back then they were young, and young people are stubborn in what they want, and it’s that stubbornness that conflicts with traditions of those older than us.

“Your dad’s parents were different than mine,” Mum said to be one day. “Although we were all Christians there were differences between our faiths, small differences to non-Christians but very big differences for us. It wouldn’t do to have a daughter-in-law from a another faith enter your house, so I converted. They would never have let me in otherwise.”

But converting meant creating a distance from her own family, one that had been rebuilt over the years by the time I was old enough to talk. But still, Mum had lived under pressure from her in-laws who wanted her out of their lives. She had to be the perfect wife for their only son. She had to cook, clean, and work, all the while raising children if she was going to be accepted.

“You’re lucky things are different now,” Mum said gently. “Your husband is a gem, and his family are members of the same church as we are. No matter, they’d have loved you even if you weren’t Christian.” And she was right.

My husband and his family had accepted me right away, and they wouldn’t have cared whether I was Christian or atheist or Jewish or anything. To them, differences weren’t hindrances to love or acceptance. Instead, they were unique parts to me that I could bring to the family, something that could help us all grow as humans.

My love story and my mother’s were very different, indeed. Mine was more like a fairy tale while hers followed the Romeo and Juliet plot (without death at the end). My mother had had to change a part of herself in order to find love, and back then things like that were to be expected if you wanted anything. Given how Mum practiced religion more frequently than me, I couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like to sacrifice something you’ve grown up with, all for the sake of an uncertain future.

In many ways Mum had given bits and pieces of herself away in order to find happiness. I was surprised that by this time she still had enough left that she could still be herself. I guess after all this time she’d done what she’d always done: buried the fears she’d had in order to live on; don’t feel so you appear strong so no one can take away what little you might have left of yourself.

I felt guilty that love had come much easier for me, but when I reluctantly admitted this to Mum she surprised me again, scolding, “Don’t ever feel guilty for being happy! My love story was harder, but that doesn’t mean you have to be like me! I endured so you could have better. I wanted to become a mother who would accept the man you chose so you wouldn’t have to change to continue being my daughter.”

It truly amazes me how much my mother had thought this through. Maybe she hadn’t buried her feelings as deeply as she’d thought.