“Did you ask her about my mother?”

“Yes. Agnes said that Alfred never mentioned anything about her, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know anything. You should call him.”

“I will, Auntie. Thank you for this. So much.”

When I returned home, I didn’t wait. Leo was on my hip, drooling on my shirt, when I called Alfred. I got his voice mail. I hadn’t prepared what I was going to say, so I hung up and tried again later that day. The same thing happened. I hung up again.

When John got home, I told him my news.

“Maybe you should leave a message. Nobody picks up the phone on a number they don’t recognize anymore,” he pointed out.

“I know. I just don’t know what to say.”

“Maybe keep it simple? Tell him the truth—that you just learned he’s in Ottawa, too.”

“What if he doesn’t call me back?”

“He definitely won’t call you back if you don’t leave a message.”

I handed Leo to John and left a message for Alfred.

曰Say

JOHN DECIDED TO GO ON PARENTAL LEAVE to give me a reprieve from the loneliness and exhaustion of motherhood. I watched with admiration, and a little jealousy, as he delighted in providing every little thing Leo needed. He made it look effortless. He was gentle, comforting, structured. He cleaned, cooked, all more efficiently than I did. I marvelled at how he attended deftly to our daughter and two pots of simmering stew on the stove.

Then one day, as I was sitting on the couch with my feet up, I looked at the two people in my family. John had just finished reading and singing a Ukrainian folktale to Leo, who smiled at him from his lap. He talked with her in his language, and she babbled back. I felt like I was looking at two strangers.

Then Leo said, “Ta Ta.”

John pointed at himself in astonishment and said, “Tato!”

“Ta Ta!” Leo screamed in delight.

“Did you hear that? I think she said her first word! She called me—”

“I heard that! What a milestone. I wish I’d recorded it,” I said.

My chest was tight, like the walls were closing in. I was unable to breathe and ran to the washroom to cry. Already I was feeling inadequate as a mother, but realizing I lacked the ability to share my mother tongue with my baby put me over the edge. Was it my fault that I had nothing to pass on to her? Did I have anything to give? She had said Tato before Mama. The distance between us tugged at my heart. My tears were flowing, but my fists were clenched. I sat on the edge of the bathtub with my head between my knees, sobbing but also raging. I was angry at Father for washing away any language or culture he had when he came to Canada. I was angry at Mother for leaving us here without someone to teach us anything about who we were.