Losing a Mother Figure
Galvez holds a memento photograph of her as a newborn in Mexico, being her last mother's touch. Courtesy of Dulce Galvez
“We will nurture you and describe your mom, but we are not replacing her.” I would get told by my family.
My mother, Maria Esther Davila, gave her life to bring me into the world on June 2, 2000. She died from a severe condition known as eclampsia that affects postpartum women after childbirth. Her love didn’t vanish with her passing; it lives with me and every guiding mother figure who stepped in to raise me.
My aunt Rosario Davila, my mother’s sister, became our protector when my mom died in Guadalajara, Mexico. She didn’t hesitate to take me and my father in, even though her pain was unbearable. “Stay here in Guadalajara, Mexico. Can you stay here and let me help raise your daughter?,” my aunt Rosario asked my father.
When my father declined her plea to stay in Guadalajara, a place that could have offered us safety and healing, he chose a different path and brought my older sister and I to Los Angeles. I was never alone after my aunt stopped the world to give me a nurturing environment in Guadalajara. To be alone means to be without family and community.
My grandma, who lives in South Los Angeles, raised me and became a mother figure, a steady hand, and a source of unconditional love. She taught me that family isn’t defined by someone who’s missing, but someone who’s there for you.
My aunts who live in Los Angeles did not have to take on the role of a mother figure but chose to embrace it. Accepting a big responsibility became a fulfilling role: they clothed me, enrolled me in school, and ensured I had the care and guidance I needed.
“Is that your daughter? she looks just like you,” a question my aunts would receive daily when they stepped out to buy me clothes or school materials. Migrating to the United States gave my aunts a future free from the violence they faced in Mexico and a chance to rebuild and protect.
In the eyes of my family, I am proof of the possibilities that might have unfolded had my father chosen to stay in Guadalajara, Mexico. He chose to raise me in the United States with strong women who paved the path.
As immigrants, we navigate systems that don’t see us, borders that divide us, and histories that weigh us. I crossed borders—physical, emotional, and generational— without a mother figure.