Member-only story
My mother’s abandonment made me worry I’d ruin a daughter
San Francisco’s Clement Street was crowded with vegetable displays and pedestrians pulling rolling baskets as I navigated Tate’s stroller along the sidewalk toward 6th Avenue. My two older boys, ages six and four, tagged alongside of me with their hands grasping the stroller. Every so often we’d stop, and I’d select bananas or turnips from the displays and hand my money to an auntie behind the kiosk.
As we waited in line to buy har gow and pineapple buns, a tiny Chinese grandmother nodded at me. “You’re so lucky!” she said while smiling at my three boys. “Such a blessing.”
“Thank you.” In my part of San Francisco, Chinese aunties loved to comment on my gaggle of boys and my good fortune. It had been explained to me that both boys and the number 3 were considered lucky, and I had hit the jackpot.
“Now you need two daughters.” She paused. “One daughter would be unlucky, but two can be a comfort to their mothers.” Auntie clicked her tongue. “Four is not a good number.”
I bristled — not because I didn’t want five children, but because I did not want a daughter. I never had. In fact, when the sonogram tech announced we were having a third son, we — me, my husband and two older sons — literally cheered.
