The first Mother’s Day I didn’t hug my mom was May 1998, when I lived abroad in Mexico and went for almost an entire year without seeing my parents. I was seventeen. Mexican women, other mothers, raised me that year. My mom might have disapproved of my choice of strappy heels (she totally did), but she was 3,000 miles away. Over the years I’m guessing we’ve been apart more than we’ve been together on the second Sunday in May. There are plenty of reasons we’re not often with her to celebrate Mother’s Day (distance, work, in-laws), but the truth is that she’s just not the kind of mom that expects me to show up because Hallmark deems it so. Not only did I draw “unfussy mom” in the life lottery, but I also got a mom who has encouraged me to seek wisdom from other women and cultivate relationships far and wide. I’m sorry she was on her own today, but she’s a gardener; she knows that when you throw seeds in the air, sometimes you have to watch flowers grow from a distance.

As a kid, I spent a lot of time with my mom’s close girlfriends and my dad’s sisters. I thought everyone grew up sharing a bed with their aunties, spending special weekends in the city or travelling across the country in creaky hatchbacks without a plan.