windfalls and tornados

She had always planned her budget around these windfalls. Nobody really understood how this always seemed to work out, but it always did. I’m pretty sure the number one rule of budgeting is to never spend money before you get it, but anything coming her way was already spent. And not on stupid things—every purchase was more of a communal contribution, a generous tithe even. If she had cash, it was going towards something for everyone. If it was ten bucks, they got cheap wine for the night, and if it was a hundred, it included dinner. Money did not hold much value to her, even though she was perpetually stressed out by it.

I stopped. I don't know what I got myself into but it seems like this lady was a little on the romantic side. It was already such a protagonist move of her to give my parents something for me to open on my eighteenth. And here I was, classic antagonist, opening it ten days early and skimming the gift part instead of reading the card. But this is more fun; plus, I honesttly can't help but love how similar her handwriting is to mine. My type of family is not uncommon, and I've heard equally exciting and disappointing stories of the donor reveals from people my age, and while I find it intriguing, I have never really felt a potential for feeling connected with this person. I have always assumed I look like her, considering I look nothing like my donor dad. I am scared to look her up because if she aged poorly I will have to sue, and that is not the meet-cute I am hoping for.

I closed the book, and took a look at it now that I'd seen my sneak peek. The inside of the front cover had written in black ink, “our little black book”. Oh brother. Here she goes again romanticizing the hell out of her life. But obviously, getting to know her is what I was here for. I skimmed the book. The handwriting on the first ten pages was curly and happy. It had lists of favorite movies, quotes, baby names and first words, and funny anecdotes about who I figured were her kids. Dated 1999. Okay, so not my mom. Her mom. After that was a blank gap of twenty-something pages and in the tiniest handwriting, but the one that was like mine: “a proper eulogy; i am sorry for doing standup at your funeral.” I closed the book like I had just walked in on someone in the bathroom, mostly because I didn’t want the book to witness my excited giggle. Here I am, seventeen and fifty weeks old, reading some sad lady's corrected eulogy for her mom. I hate that I love trauma porn. But this all feels so delightfully early 2000s and this drama is for ME? Hand written eulogies in a notebook? I have to say, I love that this is literally in my genes. I read on.

She and the love of her life met at college and worked at a bookstore together. The way the story goes, they were best friends, always in love, everyone knew it, and he was just kind of waiting for her to be ready. Finally, they go on a date, and she says something to the tune of “You know, if you kiss me, you have to marry me and have five kids.”

When she got her first positive pregnancy test, she called him with the news, and he came home early with a copy of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.” She is already halfway through her celebration bottle of champagne that she picked up at the corner store. Of course, she spent her last ten dollars on it. Staring in disbelief, he cautiously asks if she knew what a pregnant woman should avoid. With a mouth full of pizza, she confidently says “The microwave! I baked this though, honey.”

His patience was exactly what she needed. They were the perfect team. Both offensively smart, creative, and charming, they were admired by many for their striking looks and emotional intelligence. In anticipation of starting a family together, they toured the hometowns, spent time with each other’s family, and broke the news. Her mother did something ridiculous like locked herself in a closet for ten days, which is not out of character. His parents, disappointed but not surprised, wanted to help, and offered a choice: ten thousand dollars to find a home and start saving for a baby, or a wedding.

And the wedding was beautiful. Barely showing in her wedding dress, she broke the hearts of every man for the final time as she chose my father. She probably had at least twelve men present at her wedding that were hopelessly in love with her; many were groomsmen. But they all knew this was how it ended, so they were just happy to be a part of her story. The happy couple had hoped they would receive another windfall of gifts, but ended up with more sentimental pieces like an unpolished set of silverware from the maid of honor’s grandmother with dementia and a small black notebook from the four-year-old flower girl. All appreciated nonetheless.

I fully know that my mother had planned (and pre-spent) a windfall with my birth. She was really betting on me being the first baby of the new year, and she had heard that will win you a million dollars. But when the new year arrived, I was already five days old, so they just threw a big party instead. My mom, finally reunited with her champagne, gave five-day old me a “little taste” to help me ring in my first new year. The room erupted with the sound of twenty-five year olds cheering, “she likes it!”. My mom celebrated me and shared me with her world in a way that made me long to be a mother.

The first day of the new millennium was one to remember. Mom always got scratch-offs and let them sit in her purse until she came across a lucky penny. She was feeling hungover but lucky today. Of course, a few minutes later, the New Year’s hangover is cured and we are celebrating a big win with a fancy, almost thirty dollar bottle of champagne. Twenty thousand dollars.

I know this is when you guys start shifting in your pews. You know what happens next. She receives the check from the Georgia lottery, cashes it in the form of a money order, tries to open a new joint bank account, and somewhere in the mix, the money order (which everyone told her was a bad idea but it was quick) is gone…and after searching for a few hours, she kind of just rolled her eyes and said, “Huh. Someone else’s windfall then.” And never worried about it again. Everyone else was horrified. I think she lost a few friends over this. But, in my journey of relearning myself as my mother’s daughter, I have taught myself to think of her as a person just like me. And though this comes with crushing guilt remembering every time I failed to treat her as I wish I always did, I also find it pretty damn funny that she lost $20,000 and didn’t really bat an eyelash. Sometimes a windfall, sometimes a tornado. That’s my mom.

Before I go, I have to say my apologies. I'm sorry it took me until twenty-five. All the characteristics I gave myself grace to grow into were the same things you did that made me cringe. I find myself cringing lovingly in the mirror any time I move like you. I made fun of you for being a philosopher to find myself growing up and saying, "well, the only things I enjoy are thinking and talking..." during interviews. I poked fun at all your phases and side hustles. I'm just like you now with work, just worse at business. I like to skip to the good part. I hate movies too. I'm happiest in the middle of the night but hate that everyone is asleep. I love being alone but also want to attach myself to anyone that is around me and follow them into every room. If my friend gets a haircut, I have to call them "haircut." I don't really like food or work or routine or new music. When I was little, I thought green and purple were the ugliest colors. Just because they were your favorites. I just realized today my favorite colors are green and purple. I will fight until I die for someone else but if my order is messed up at a restaurant, I will eat that shit. I finally know I am my mother's daughter, and I am so sorry I didn't get to know myself as such sooner. Wish you were here.

I found myself disappointed by the ending. I wanted a good joke. I can only imagine how the real eulogy went. I'm obviously crying a little, feeling overwhelmed with the worry that my mother isn't funny, and annoyed by every similarity. I feel like I'm reading a horoscope, and just being like "Oh yeah I do that" and can't tell if I do because of her or because I just exist. The envelope, poking out from under the book, called my name. I was already in this deep; might as well go for it!

After reading that eulogy, I was certainly expecting some amazing long letter for her literal offspring. It was short. But I felt like I was looking at my exact handwriting.

I am sorry to tell you I have ADHD. I lied on the donor application about this one thing. I am so so sorry since you probably have it too, but at least you got to exist! I'm really happy you do and I hope you're happy too. I am so glad I met your dad and got to do this with him. We actually met online after he accidentally tagged my mom's name in a post--we found out we both have moms with the same first and last names. He told me he wanted to name his child after his mom, and here we are a few months later, making babies in labs. I totally think your dad is hot, and hope you look a lot like him. If you ever decide to look me up and I ended up not aging well, I have attached a little gift for you. It's something I found when going through my mom's memory boxes. It is truly heartbreaking how much value this has lost since 1999 but it might get you a decent used car and a down deposit on your first apartment. Or just a fancy ass bottle of champagne. I literally will never know. Don't hate me xoxo. This is so stupid. Please forgive me.

I picked up the piece of paper. I had no idea what this was and have never seen money in a physical form. I know cash was a thing but I'd never handled it. But the piece of paper swears it won't expire. I am fuming now. This strange ancient thing is claiming to be $20,000, is addressed to my first and last name. With a smug and stupid smile smeared across my face, I go into my dad's wine fridge, steal some champagne, and clink my glass with myself in the mirror. Cheers to windfalls.