Dear Mom,

Thank you.

It's been fifteen years since you packed everything up and moved to this country. Back then, you didn't know the language, you had no connections, no work visa; I was four, my sister was nine - you walked us to school every morning, packed lunch in hand and hair in neat braids.

You learned English with me, made sure I kept up my Russian even though I would have rather spent those hours playing on the computer than going over grammar exercises. You learned to drive so you could take me to piano lessons, gymnastics, choir rehearsals. Whenever I wanted to learn something, you handed it to me on a silver platter. We had nothing, but you gave me everything.

Forgive me for the times that I kicked and screamed and cried. I didn't know any better. Forgive me like I forgive you for the times that you got mad. I know I didn't appreciate enough what you'd done for me, for all of us. You left your entire life 3,000 miles away without a word, and I complained when you made me practice scales for five extra minutes.

The summer before my senior year of high school, your brother died. I remember, even in that moment of sorrow, when you asked me to fly back with you for the funeral, it was a question. You needed me, but even then you let me choose. You kept thanking me. I didn't do anything to deserve that.

You hadn't seen him in person for thirteen years. I looked at him lying in his coffin and I saw the look on your face as you burst into the types of graceful tears that only a mother can cry, and I have never been more sorry in my life.

I am sorry that I didn't understand earlier what you gave up to let me have this life. I know that I can never appreciate enough the true cost of my childhood. I hope that one day I will make you proud.

Thank you.