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I was attending college an hour away, and I brought it up again and again on my frequent trips home. A year went by, then two.

Lola took aspirin every day for the pain, and her teeth looked like a crumbling Stonehenge. One night, after watching her chew bread on the side of her mouth that still had a few good molars, I lost it.

Mom and I argued into the night, each of us sobbing at different points. I let her words sink in. The night ended when she declared that I would never understand her relationship with Lola. Her voice was so guttural and pained that thinking of it even now, so many years later, feels like a punch to the stomach.

The look in her eyes made clear that she felt the same way about me. Mom drove her harder. Your kids are worried about you. Who would take care of us? Of Mom? Coming to America had been a mad dash, and before we caught a breath a decade had gone by. We turned around, and a second decade was closing out. She was ashamed to return. She had no contacts in America, and no facility for getting around. Phones puzzled her.

Mechanical things—ATMs, intercoms, vending machines, anything with a keyboard—made her panic. Fast-talking people left her speechless, and her own broken English did the same to them.

I got Lola an ATM card linked to my bank account and taught her how to use it. She succeeded once, but the second time she got flustered, and she never tried again. She kept the card because she considered it a gift from me. I also tried to teach her to drive.

I spent 20 minutes going over the controls and gauges. Her eyes went from mirthful to terrified. When I turned on the ignition and the dashboard lit up, she was out of the car and in the house before I could say another word.

I tried a couple more times. I thought driving could change her life. She could go places. And if things ever got unbearable with Mom, she could drive away forever. Four lanes became two , pavement turned to gravel. Tricycle drivers wove between cars and water buffalo pulling loads of bamboo. An occasional dog or goat sprinted across the road in front of our truck, almost grazing the bumper. Doods never eased up. I took out a map and traced the route to the village of Mayantoc, our destination.

Out the window, in the distance, tiny figures folded at the waist like so many bent nails. People harvesting rice, the same way they had for thousands of years.

We were getting close. I tapped the cheap plastic box and regretted not buying a real urn, made of porcelain or rosewood. Not that many were left. Only one sibling remained in the area, Gregoria, 98 years old, and I was told her memory was failing. She had the day planned: When I arrived, a low-key memorial, then a prayer, followed by the lowering of the ashes into a plot at the Mayantoc Eternal Bliss Memorial Park. All day I had been feeling intense grief and resisting the urge to let it out, not wanting to wail in front of Doods.

More than the shame I felt for the way my family had treated Lola, more than my anxiety about how her relatives in Mayantoc would treat me, I felt the terrible heaviness of losing her, as if she had died only the day before. Doods veered northwest on the Romulo Highway, then took a sharp left at Camiling, the town Mom and Lieutenant Tom came from. Two lanes became one, then gravel turned to dirt. The path ran along the Camiling River, clusters of bamboo houses off to the side, green hills ahead.

The homestretch. That she was brave and spirited. That she was radiant when she was happy. That I wished we could thank her one more time. That we all loved her. Just as I had selectively blocked Lola out of my mind when I was with Mom during her last years.

Loving my mother required that kind of mental surgery. Breast cancer. Acute myelogenous leukemia, a fast-growing cancer of the blood and bone marrow. She went from robust to frail seemingly overnight. After the big fight, I mostly avoided going home, and at age 23 I moved to Seattle.

When I did visit I saw a change. Mom was still Mom, but not as relentlessly. She got Lola a fine set of dentures and let her have her own bedroom. It was a long process, but Lola became a citizen in October , four months after my mother was diagnosed with leukemia.

Mom lived another year. During that time, she and Ivan took trips to Lincoln City, on the Oregon coast, and sometimes brought Lola along. Lola loved the ocean. On the other side were the islands she dreamed of returning to. And Lola was never happier than when Mom relaxed around her. An afternoon at the coast or just 15 minutes in the kitchen reminiscing about the old days in the province, and Lola would seem to forget years of torment. But I did come to see Mom in a different light.

The irony: She tended to underdogs most of her professional life. They worshipped her. Female colleagues became close friends. Looking through their party pictures reminded me that Mom had a life and an identity apart from the family and Lola.

Of course. Mom wrote in great detail about each of her kids, and how she felt about us on a given day—proud or loving or resentful. And she devoted volumes to her husbands, trying to grasp them as complex characters in her story.

We were all persons of consequence. Lola was incidental. The day before Mom died, a Catholic priest came to the house to perform last rites. She had become extra attentive to my mother, and extra kind. She could have taken advantage of Mom in her feebleness, even exacted revenge, but she did the opposite.

The priest asked Mom whether there was anything she wanted to forgive or be forgiven for. She scanned the room with heavy-lidded eyes, said nothing.

Then, without looking at Lola, she reached over and placed an open hand on her head. Lola was 75 when she came to stay with me. I was married with two young daughters, living in a cozy house on a wooded lot.

From the second story, we could see Puget Sound. We gave Lola a bedroom and license to do whatever she wanted: sleep in, watch soaps, do nothing all day. She could relax—and be free—for the first time in her life. She groused incessantly about Dad and Ivan: My father was lazy, Ivan was a leech. I learned to tune her out. Harder to ignore was her fanatical thriftiness. She threw nothing out. She washed and reused paper towels again and again until they disintegrated in her hands.

No one else would go near them. She cooked breakfast even though none of us ate more than a banana or a granola bar in the morning, usually while we were running out the door. She made our beds and did our laundry. She cleaned the house.

It irritated me to catch her eating meals standing in the kitchen, or see her tense up and start cleaning when I walked into the room. One day, after several months, I sat her down. Check out the full table of contents and find your next story to read. When I realized she was startled, I took a deep breath and cupped her face, that elfin face now looking at me searchingly. I kissed her forehead. You can relax, okay? I realized I had to take my own advice and relax.

If she wanted to make dinner, let her. Thank her and do the dishes. I had to remind myself constantly: Let her be. One night I came home to find her sitting on the couch doing a word puzzle, her feet up, the TV on.

Next to her, a cup of tea. She glanced at me, smiled sheepishly with those perfect white dentures, and went back to the puzzle. Progress , I thought. She planted a garden in the backyard—roses and tulips and every kind of orchid—and spent whole afternoons tending it. She took walks around the neighborhood.

At about 80, her arthritis got bad and she began walking with a cane. In the kitchen she went from being a fry cook to a kind of artisanal chef who created only when the spirit moved her. She made lavish meals and grinned with pleasure as we devoured them.

The same tape over and over. One afternoon, I found her sitting on the back deck gazing at a snapshot someone had sent of her village.

She turned the photograph over and traced her finger across the inscription, then flipped it back and seemed to study a single detail. Just after her 83rd birthday, I paid her airfare to go home. The unspoken purpose of her trip was to see whether the place she had spent so many years longing for could still feel like home. The old farms were gone. Her house was gone. Her parents and most of her siblings were gone.

Childhood friends, the ones still alive, were like strangers. It was nice to see them, but … everything was not the same. And unlike my wife and me especially me , Lola enjoyed every minute of every school event and performance.

She sat up front, kept the programs as mementos. It was so easy to make Lola happy. And she taught herself to read. It was remarkable. She did those puzzles where you find and circle words within a block of letters. Her room had stacks of word-puzzle booklets, thousands of words circled in pencil. Every day she watched the news and listened for words she recognized. Simply click on the picture and then click [Run] We also mail to your home most countries , one per address as available.

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