My mother is a survivor, hero and friend to me

Ninda Daianti, Contributor, Jakarta

"Goodbye, Ninda, be good, OK?" she said for the last time. Her eyes were red from crying.

"Bye, Mom. I love you."

I hugged her tight. I never ever said those three words, because of my pride. I didn't want to let go of her, but my friends were waiting for me -- I had to go.

"Ninda, you have to go now," she whispered.

I broke away from her and smiled sadly. I hardly ever cried for her, and even if I did, I at least tried not to do it in front of her.

I didn't want her to know that I cried for her. My ego was too huge to do such a thing. When I had to leave her, I finally realized that I needed her more than I needed my friends or my boyfriend or my teachers.

She was, and will always be, there for me no matter what happens. I gave her one last look and then went to the airport waiting room.

* * *

I was seven at the time, but I still remember everything very clearly. My dad was reading a newspaper quietly, my sister Yinda was eating her breakfast, and my mom was still getting ready for work. I was putting stuff in my backpack, busy with myself as usual. Everything was normal; it was just another day.

Five minutes later, my mom came out of the bedroom and sat next to my dad.

"We have some news to tell you," my dad started. He looked right into my eyes, trying to figure out what I was thinking.

My sister and I were just waiting for him to continue. We knew that this day would come sooner or later. After all, we weren't stupid, we knew that they didn't sleep in the same room any more. They didn't even talk to each other unless they had to.

"We're getting a divorce," my mom continued. She was too impatient to wait for my dad to say those words. It was too hard for him; he was too afraid.

The statement stabbed me in the heart right away. I wanted to die. I didn't understand much about marriage, but I knew that divorce was definitely not a good thing. It meant splitting up, not together anymore, starting over and no more family dinners.

"When are you guys getting the divorce?" my sister asked. She kept her eyes on the floor, didn't want our parents to look at her.

She understood more about this kind of thing than I did, so I bet it was harder for her. My dad and mom looked at each other, wondering who was going to answer my sister's question.

My brave mom turned to Yinda and said, "It's already been done, but we haven't decided if the two of you will be living with me or your dad."

More bad news. I didn't know what I wanted to do and what to say right there and then. I was speechless. I walked quietly to my dad and hugged him. I buried my face in his arms. My sister didn't say anything; she was speechless too.

* * *

I was always afraid of asking mom about the divorce. It was one subject we always avoided. We never, ever talked about it. When I was 13, I was dying to ask her.

I had so many questions, anger, confusion and sadness inside me. I asked those questions to my sister instead, and she answered what she knew. It was easier to ask her, and it helped a lot.

We also talked about it, so we could let our feelings out. I knew my mom wasn't prepared to talk about it, so I didn't want to make her. When she was ready, then I would be ready to listen to her. I understood that it must be really hard for her. If I was her, I probably wouldn't survive.

She was finally ready. It was such a big deal for us; she booked a great hotel that my sister and I liked very much. We spent the night there without knowing that she was going to talk about the divorce.

My sister and I had no clue when she told us to sit down; I was still clueless. The three of us sat at the round table in the hotel room.

"I think it's time for you guys to know my side," she told us directly. I looked at my sister, scared and unprepared. We knew what she was talking about. I was to small to remember anything about it. In fact, I didn't really remember having a dad in my life. I didn't have a father figure while growing up; I only had a mother figure.

"It was hard for me," she started. My sister listened carefully. I didn't want to listen, I wasn't ready to hear what she had to say. It was too painful.

"I didn't exactly know when it began. Dad and I just started to grow apart. And then, Rieke came into his life. She was always there for him when I wasn't there for him. She seemed so right for him. Maybe I wasn't a good wife; maybe I was gone too much. I really don't know what his reasons were.

"Everybody told me that he cheated on me, but I didn't want to believe them. For a while I was lying to myself. I knew that he really was cheating on me. But I was too scared to tell him how I felt. Your father was a really good talker and he was so good at turning everything around to point back at me. He was so good at repartees, and I wasn't. I didn't say that it was all his fault, it was my fault too."

She took a deep breath.

"There was one time when I went to the Netherlands and your dad told you guys to call Rieke 'Mom'. It was too much for me. Then he accused me of cheating, too. That's when we decided that the marriage wouldn't work at all, and we got divorced."

She told the story with tears in her eyes. I knew that there were many more things that had happened, but she didn't want to tell us. She didn't want to think Dad was a jerk. I looked at my mom -- she was crying so much I don't think I ever saw her like that.

"I'm sorry this had to happen to you guys. It was actually the best thing that ever happened to me. It was like being free again. After all, life is a vicissitude, and you just have to deal with these things."

I held her hands tight. "I love you, Mom," my sister said. She stood up from her chair and hugged Mom. I didn't say anything.

Mom looked at me expectantly, and I hugged her, too. It was too emotional for me, but letting go of the anger that I had kept inside for so long was such a good feeling. After we calmed down, she smiled happily, glad that she had told us. We realized that we had each other, and that was what was important.

"You both know that I don't like to talk about this stuff, so I brought all the divorce papers, including the letters and everything else. You can look through it," she handed my sister a huge folder and we began to read.

* * *

I thought talking about the divorce would be the hardest part.

I was wrong.

It started with a phone call from a bank saying that my dad owed them money. It wasn't our problem, of course, but he had taken out a second mortgage on the house we lived in. The worst thing was, he didn't seem to be paying off his loan.

My mom was very stressed out by this. She had avoided talking to my dad since the divorce; she didn't want anything to do with him anymore.

But my mom thought enough was enough. She decided to surprise him and made plans to visit him. She wanted to talk to him in person. I didn't want to go, but I was also excited about seeing him at the same time. I hadn't seen him for more than a year. He lived in a suburb and it took us two hours to find his house. My uncle came with us to make sure we were okay.

I never saw my mom so nervous before. When we knocked on the door, we were all curious. I wanted to see how he lived, what his house was like, and whether he had a cat or a dog. He opened the door. His face was exactly the same as I imagined.

"Yinda, Ninda, Naindra and Dito, what a surprise."

He acted like it was a normal situation. He kissed and hugged my sister and then me. He shook hands with Mom. It was very awkward. He suddenly laughed, for no particular reason. It sounded raucous. We just stared at him like he was crazy.

I studied his house. There were pictures of him and his wife, Rieke. There were also pictures of their daughter and her children, but no pictures of my sister and me. I looked around the house; it was too quiet.

I guessed Rieke wasn't home. My mom then got straight to the point. I sat close by her, as if I was watching over her. It must be really hard for her, seeing her ex-husband with a new life.

My sister and I decided to be taciturn to him, but he didn't seem to notice.

In the car outside, she exhaled loudly.

"Oh my God, I'm so glad that's over." My sister and I kept quiet. We were both speechless again. She was so brave and she did a wonderful job. She kept her cool when she was talking to my dad. It was as if she was emotionless. I expected her to break down and cry, but she didn't. Instead she said, "Do you guys want to get something to eat?" shocking me.

* * *

My relationship with my mom is unique. She's more of a friend than a mother. She's my best friend, my teacher, my role model, and sometimes an enemy. She's the person I want to be when I grow up.

Maybe a year ago, I would have been too embarrassed to talk to her in front of my friends, but those feelings are gone now. I understand that being her is so hard and I don't want to make it even harder for her.

I'm proud to be her daughter and I'm lucky to have her as my mom. I love her and I'm not afraid to say it to her any more.

The writer, Ninda, is a 17-year-old exchange student studying in Litchfield, Minnesota.