The Last Hug

Early March 1985

It was a frigid, blustery day when my entire family accompanied me to the airport to say goodbye.

Even though I had been preparing for this event for months, it suddenly felt like bad news. Emotions ran through me, making my head spin. How could I stop this from happening? What on earth was I doing?

I really had no say in the matter, and my parents had already decided that I would move across the ocean to be with my father, whom I barely knew.

I've only seen him a handful of times. Sometimes he would visit for just a few days, then vanish for months or even years, only to reappear briefly. Over those years, my mother dictated many letters for me to write to him—mainly demanding “stuff” for me. Despite the long absences, gifts arrived: money sent to her, clothes for my sister and me, and other cool things my friends envied. He even bought my mother a car. I hated the moments when, usually after Sunday dinner, she’d announce, “It’s letter time to your father,” forcing me to write to him.

We stood in a circle around my big suitcase. I stared at it, unsure of how I felt about the life-changing trip.

'How will I lift that?' I wondered, but my mind was crowded with other fears. At fifteen, I felt scared, and the world suddenly seemed intimidating.

I tried not to cry, but tears still trickled down my chin, and I wiped them with the sleeve of my jacket.

Grandma was crying too. 'I just know I will never see you again,' she whispered in my ear as she hugged me long and tight.

“I’ll miss you, Grandma,” I said and sucked up the snot running from my nose while choking on my tears.

Grandfather kept his composure, though I knew he struggled to hide his feelings. I was his only grandchild, his favorite. 'Who will shine his motorcycle on Sundays now?' I thought.

I loved those after-church Sundays when he took me on the sidecar of his motorcycle to a local shop for candy and other little knick-knacks they were selling. I used to collect a pinwheel in every color the store had, then moved on to the colored, oversized pencils with a colorful gem attached to their giant erasers at the ends. As I stand here in the airport, I realize those happy moments will be only in my memory from now on.

My little sister stood emotionless, following my mother's orders. She was too young to understand I was leaving, maybe forever. Would she be glad to have our room and my things? Would she ever miss me? I’m sure she will enjoy not having me around, but maybe she’ll miss hanging out with my friends. Being with an older crowd made her feel more grown-up. I glanced at the bear as she pulled it closer, as if I might take it back. I hugged her and whispered, “Stay strong. I love you.”

Packing my few belongings took a week. Leaving home for the unknown, I wanted to ensure I had everything necessary, especially my journals. Nothing mattered more than those notebooks filled with my drawings, stories, and feelings—all meant for a future memoir... someday. I didn’t want anyone to read my private thoughts—especially my mother.

I could bring only one big suitcase and a backpack. Those were the rules for overseas travel. I wished I could fit all my books and things that my mother said not to pack, but I had already accepted leaving them behind. The suitcase was big enough for my sister and her beloved stuffed bear, which she inherited from me. The brown bear would make a sound when flipped on its back. It was a gift from a friend who traveled abroad and brought me a souvenir. My sister always wanted it. Now, it was hers alone.

With Mother’s help, we packed the few clothes she thought I needed: shirts, a sweater, worn pants, and my favorite sneakers. I wore my winter boots for the snow. My backpack held toiletries and snacks Grandma packed for the road.

Once my suitcase was packed, I slipped my journals under the clothes so they lay flat and hidden.

'Everything is ready,' I said quietly. My stomach dropped, sadness washing over me.

My friends were excited for me. 'You’ll see the big world!' they cheered when I announced my last day of school. I wasn't happy about that at all. I would miss the school and my friends—even some of the teachers.

I would definitely miss my grandparents the most. My grandmother’s childhood stories filled my diary with colorful details.

We spent many hours in her kitchen, where she taught me to bake. Every year before Christmas, she made cakes and cookies for neighbors and friends. I wish I had her recipes, but I wasn’t thinking about that back then.

I watched her make many of my dresses and nightgowns as she sat at her antique sewing machine. I always helped her remove the pins from the soft fabric and cut the ribbons.

She showed me how to garden and care for houseplants that grew big and beautiful. Every year, we pickle the fruits and veggies we harvest. Her kitchen was always busy and full of all sorts of smells.

It was Grandma who taught me to read and write before I started school. I will miss her most.

I knew I would miss Grandfather, too. I couldn’t forget how he loved Grandma and made jokes that made her laugh. They were a true couple in love, even after so many years.

Grandpa taught me to use tools to fix things around the house. He showed me how to train his postal pigeons, which he kept in his ‘pigeon shed.’ He was always busy. If he wasn’t chopping wood or helping Grandma, he was in his garage, working on his old motorcycle.

I would also miss my sister, though we weren’t as close as sisters should be. Mother often pitted us against each other, blaming me for her actions and making me responsible for her as if she were my own child.

She was never satisfied or happy, and nothing I ever did was right.

My baby sister wanted to do everything I did. We were too far apart in age to play together, but I let her tag along, despite my friends’ frowns. I worried about her. Still, without me in Mother’s life, she may get more of the attention she needs and deserves.

I would miss my mother the least. We never saw eye to eye. She often blamed me for things and reminded me that I ruined her life. The only thing I learned from her was anger. She didn't bake or cook like Grandma. She didn’t sew any clothes either. She smoked, drank, and played Bridge on weekends, and made me write those long letters to my dad. There was something positive, though: books. Mother liked reading as much as she enjoyed smoking and drinking. We always had a variety of books stuffed on the shelves for me to explore.

We wiped our tears and said goodbye as the airport announcement called for boarding. Sudden fear washed over me. This wasn’t some sort of a dream. It was reality. My reality. And I had to face it as an adult would. Only I was a child without guidance.

“How will I handle this suitcase? What if I get lost? How will I communicate without knowing the language?” My head spun as I held back tears that never seemed to stop coming. I was scared.

The only thing that brought me some relief was knowing I wouldn't have to deal with my mother anymore. No more yelling — her unhappy, always-angry banter will no longer affect me. I can be myself without her blaming me for her bad day at work or for the train she took being late.

I remember my grandparents’ sad faces, their sweet encouragement, and hope that I’d visit them soon.

But what I remember the most is my Mother's words as I walked away: “Finally, one less mouth to feed.”