Motherhood Isn’t for Me — But I Found Purpose When I Became a Tía

It is 2:30 p.m., and my dog barks excitedly at the front door. Mami is already standing next to him, eagerly looking into our yard. I am hurriedly finishing any work I had for the day. Saya and Henry are home from school, and everything stops. My niece and nephew, ages 11 and 6, respectively, are the center of our universe. Their mother is my sister Jennifer. She and I were born 18 months apart and have been best friends since her birth. Our youngest sister, Julissa, picks up the kids every day. They walk half a mile home catching Pokémon and speculating over what I've ordered for lunch or what grandma might have cooked up. The children spend every afternoon with us until my brother-in-law picks them up three hours later. We are again left in a quiet home, with strewn toys and Play-Doh reminding us of their departure. It is a precious life full of routine only children provide.

I am approaching the last year of my 30s. I do not have children I've birthed. I often say this is by choice, but, truthfully, my body has made the choice for me multiple times by miscarriages. I don't mourn my inability to be a biological mother as much as folks expect me to. It isn't that I don't love children; I am wild about them. But I found a cheat code: being a tía.

There was a time when Henry would climb onto my big leather chair with me and ask why I don't have kids. He's not thinking of any of that social nonsense we are force-fed. His question is selfish in the pure way that only children can be; he wants cousins to play with. My answer is always the same, "I tried having my own babies, and it didn't work. I saw how perfect you were and fell in love the day you were born. I asked your mama if we could share you. She said yes, and you are my little boy, too." This answer has sufficed, and he often says it in unison with me. I bury my face in his hair to hide my happy tears.

Before my sister had children, my cousins did. I babysat those kids whenever they asked. I spoiled them all with my small paychecks and blocked off all weekends for them. They are all teenagers now, and although I can't smother them with kisses like I once did, they all indulge me in their own way. Andrew and Rozy don't like hugs but will high-five me when I ask. We now have conversations about music, films, and family in general. Becky and Kique are also teens. I don't see them as often as I'd like, but when we do hang out, Becky hugs me the entire time. My cousins would tell me, "Wait until your sisters have kids. That's a new kind of love." I thought it was impossible I could ever love someone more than I already loved those four kids. Boy, I was wrong.

Jennifer, Julissa, and I grew up and still are incredibly close. The three of us have been against the world since the beginning. We've fought neighbors, social workers, and our own dad together. Our mother dressed us in matching outfits and marched us to church every Sunday. We were latchkey kids who spent afternoons building and destroying planets. We navigated our father's alcoholism, temper, illness, and death. We titled our group chat "the power of 3." To this day, I divide all meals and gifts into three.

The day Jennifer told me she was pregnant with Saya, she quoted my favorite film, Dirty Dancing. I immediately began buying baby clothes, car seats, and a stroller. We were having a baby! I took time off from work when Saya was born. I couldn't get enough of her big eyes and tiny fist curling around my finger. I often wept while holding her; I couldn't wrap my mind around the little miracle of a mini Jennifer. When Saya was a toddler, I'd borrow her for entire days. We would go to Echo Park and feed the ducks. We'd ride the bus to Target for shopping sprees. I'd take her to my job to show her off to my coworkers. I announced that she was the greatest love I would ever know. 

One afternoon Jennifer sat me down and told me another baby was coming, a little boy. Henry came into the world smiling. We were instant best friends. When he was nearly a year old, I had my third miscarriage. I would lay on the couch with Henry on my chest and cry for hours. He would coo, laugh, and place his tiny hands on my face. The older he got, the more his personality took over the house. He is a mischievous kid with a big imagination and a bigger heart. He does not turn down a kiss, even when he's grumpy. He is fearless, too, jumping from couch, to chair, to sofa, to anyone's arms. On days he doesn't visit, he FaceTimes us and asks a thousand questions. Julissa and I happily answer them all.

My sister Jennifer has let me love her children with abandon. They are an extension of her. When we were 17 and 15, our mami sent us to El Salvador for about two months. It was Jennifer's wish in exchange for not having a quinceañera. My luggage got lost on that trip, and all I had for weeks were a couple of changes of clothes and a nightgown. I was moody and sulked in corners of our family compound with my journal. Jenny did everything she could to cheer me up. She'd bring me mangos from down by the river, encourage me to wear our tía's clothes even if it made me look like a señora, play my favorite songs on the boombox we dug out of a closet, and took on all arguments with our grumpy abuela. Years later, when we were adults, I dragged her to bars with my friends and showed her off as a trophy. She's kept all my secrets and held my hand through heartbreaks I thought would kill me. Whenever Julissa and I would have one of our world-ending fights, Jennifer took no sides. She'd hear us out and quietly tell us both she agreed.

She's my soulmate; she is also someone's wife and mother. I used to fear this would pull her away from me, but we are closer than ever.

My relationship with my sisters culminates in everything we have survived, given up, and fought for. Together, we are raising two children who know love to be unconditional. How radical is that? So many of us dream of breaking generations of trauma, and here we are with these tiny people doing it. I don't know what other miracles life has to give me, but I do know that the greatest love I have ever lived has been that of my flesh and blood. Motherhood isn't for me, and being a tía is not a consolation. It is an honor I rise to every single day I am alive.