A Taste of Home

I rarely ever called her. Not because I hated my mother, but because I couldn’t bear the pain that came with it. Seeing her face on Face-time, or hearing her voice, each call was a reminder of what I left behind, of her absence, and of my guilt for learning how to live without her. The person on the other side was both familiar and unreachable. What haunted me the most wasn’t the years apart, it was how easily silence became a routine.

I sat by the airplane window, staring into the sea, watching the waves crash onto the land below. My hands tapped restlessly against the seat; my heart pounded as my mind ran in circles. My aunt sat silently beside me.

Somewhere in the background, the pilot mumbled something in Spanish before translating into English, “We will be landing in a few minutes…”

I leaned back, took a deep breath, and tried to steady myself for whatever I was about to face. As the plane descended, I realized, this time I couldn’t hang up. I would have to face her, face all the years I had hidden in silence. I never imagined this trip would lead me to her doorstep, but somehow it had. Part of me wanted to turn back. Part of me wanted to be nine again, just so I could start over.

Before I knew it, we were outside the airport, the Dominican Republic heat hitting me like a wave, thick and exotic. My aunt spoke calmly on the phone, coordinating with my mom, while I clutched my bags, waiting for what felt like forever.

Then I noticed her: a woman walking towards me, one hand holding blue and white balloons, the other clutching a white teddy bear. She wore a black shirt and blue jeans. Every step she took looked slow, almost delicate, and yet impossibly fast at the same time. My heart raced as I tried to reconcile the woman approaching me with the mother I had left years ago.

I remember the last time I saw my mom; I was nine years old. She was the one who dropped my younger brother, father, and I at the airport. I didn’t know then how that goodbye would stretch across nearly a decade. Four years ago, she escaped the criminals that overtook her home country, Haiti. She had taken refuge here in the Dominican Republic.

I ran into her arms before I could even drop my bag, my body more sure than my mind. Everything disappeared around me, my throat tightened, and mixed thoughts of recognition and strangeness came over me.

The bones on her back were hard against my palm. I felt the fragility in her frame; her arms wrapped around me like they were trying to hold back all the years that we had lost. It was warm but unsettling, like hugging a known stranger. There was a slight tremble in her body, the weight of every lonely day she carried. For a moment, I wanted to apologize for every birthday, missed call, and every unanswered text, but my mouth wouldn’t move. Her faint and familiar scent pulled me back to the little girl I had been, the one who left her in Haiti, alone.

Her voice broke slightly as she said my name.

“ Gaëlle…”

Raspy and raw, like someone who had been speaking and crying for too long. I laughed nervously, trying to anchor myself in her presence.

That night, we drove through the streets of DR, and heavy silence filled the car while her friend drove. My mother sat with me in the back seat, staring, as if studying every detail of my face with quiet curiosity. Every time our eyes met, I didn’t know whether to smile, speak, or look away.

I still don’t remember a word that came out of me on that late night ride to the apartment. It was dark when we arrived, the crickets loud, and the air warmer than before but still thick. We had driven for three hours. I had imagined her peppering me with questions, but instead, silence said everything. Like strangers, trying to remember how to love each other.

I thought of our last night together years ago, her, my brother and I quietly eating dinner in the dining room, pretending not to notice the packed bags by the door.

“Epaw pa jam dim anyen,” she said to me, her voice tender and full of exhaustion. You haven’t said anything to me. I wanted to answer, but the words sat heavy in my throat. I was trapped between guilt and disbelief. It was strange; I could barely recognize the woman staring back at me and the strangeness of being in the same room. She walked me into a room with a bed and a small fan shaking weakly in the corner. On her bedside table sat a younger photo of my little brother and I, faded at the edges but nicely framed.

We were so happy then, so close.

The silence filled up the room before she broke it again.

“Ou grangou?” She asked softly. Are you hungry?

I remember just being frozen in exhaustion. I kindly responded no and got ready for bed.

Morning sunlight filtered through the thin red curtains, and I could see the dust dancing in the air. My mom moved around the kitchen quietly, and the scent of coffee filled the atmoshpere. It reminded me of the smell of mornings when I was little, when coffee was brewing as I got ready for kindergarten. I watched her hands pour, dainty and graceful, the same hands that used to pack our lunchboxes, now preparing breakfast for me. It was odd, seeing her so ordinary and yet so monumental at the same time.

“Bonjour!” She said, smiling.

I smiled back, words still stuck in my throat, she placed my favorite breakfast in front of me, the same one I used to love eating every morning before school, Banan bouyi, ze fri, ak zaboka. Watching her pour coffee now, I remembered the same care she had once shown for my brother and me.

I couldn’t imagine how long she had waited to do this, to cook once again for her first child, even if she only got the chance to do it once again. I picked up the spoon and took a bite; each bite was a reminder of all the times I hadn’t called or reached out or hadn’t checked up on her, and of the mothers’ days that I hadn’t thought about her. I kept my eyes on the table, because looking at her made my heart ache. She softly gazed at me and a warm smile on her face. She pulled out a chair, sat down across from me, and started eating as well.

I took a deep breath. As I exhaled my body became less tense, I looked up into her weary eyes and breathed out “Merci.” Thank you.

Her eyes widened before she responded with another smile.

That’s when I realized guilt doesn’t vanish with a single meal or embrace. But facing her, being here, I finally acknowledged it. That may be where healing begins.