When I was a kid, my mom would cook cheesy mashed potatoes for dinner. I thought it was just mashed potatoes with some orange cheese on top. Years later, my world fell apart when I heard Mom say to my aunt, “We didn’t have enough money for real cheese, so I used those government blocks. They melted better anyway.”
I remember being stuck in the hallway. I was about 22 years old and home from college for the summer. It felt weird, but I wasn’t upset. That food made me feel better. It tasted like sick days and birthday banquets, and like going home after winning a spelling bee or scraping my knees. I assumed it was a bowl of love. It turns out it was survival.
Back then, I didn’t say anything. I discreetly walked into the kitchen, drank a glass of water, and stared at the linoleum floor while Mom talked in the other room like she hadn’t just ruined a childhood memory. It wasn’t the false cheese that bothered me; it was realizing how hard she must have worked to hide how tight things were back then.
That piece of information started to fill in a lot of gaps over the next few weeks. For instance, Aunt Nadiya’s kids always “gently used” our things, and when the power went out for a few hours, Mom would light candles like it was a game. Or how “Property of Cascade Mental Health” was written in fading Sharpie on the bottom of my lunchbox in third grade. I thought the name of the brand was plain weird.
One night, I asked Mom about it. I said, “Hey, do you remember those cheesy mashed potatoes you used to make?” when we were folding the clothes.
She grinned at me and said, “That’s your favorite.”
I nodded. “Was it really cheese that the government gave you?”
She stayed still. Just kept folding. “Yes.” The orange brick stuff that came in the pantry box. I had to use a knife to shave it because it didn’t arrive already shredded like the fancy kind.
I don’t know what I thought would happen. An apology? A reason? But she just kept folding socks, as if it weren’t a big deal.
And it might not have been.
But that moment broke something in me. I started asking more questions about everything, not just the food. Why we had to move three times in one year. Why Dad always seems to be “working on a project out of town” over the holidays. Why we didn’t have a landline phone for most of my childhood.
I didn’t realize how much mom had to do.
Dad wasn’t a loser, but Mom called him “casually unreliable.” He would bring a lot of pyrotechnics on the Fourth of July, but he would miss birthdays and even rent payments. He was nice and interesting, but he couldn’t take on any responsibility. She stopped trusting him when I was nine.
That’s when she began to clean houses on the side. She would go on Saturdays with a mop in one hand and her Walkman on her jeans. I always thought she would do aerobics. It wasn’t until long later that I found out she was cleaning toilets in homes three villages away, and sometimes I was sleeping in the car outside.
I started bringing everything with me when I went to college. It felt like a peculiar type of protection, not like a weight. When other kids complained about the food in the cafeteria, I remembered how Mom used to make spaghetti last for three days. When my roommate threw out a tub of yogurt because it was “a little watery,” I remembered scraping the last of a peanut butter jar with a butter knife, knowing we wouldn’t get any more until next payday.
But I never told anyone. Not really.
I graduated, took a job in marketing in Chicago, and started living what I thought was the “real” adult life: wine nights, making dinner, and talking about work problems with friends. But the old thing was still there. It got louder, if anything.
Even though Mom said she didn’t need it, I started sending her a little money each month. I knew she was still cleaning houses since she said she liked being busy, but I also saw that she stopped more often when she was standing up or “forgot” to get new glasses even though hers were crooked.
Then there was the twist that I didn’t see coming.
I was about to obtain a promotion. Marten was a guy who often donned Patagonia vests and stated stuff like “synergize our touchpoints.” It was just between him and myself. For two weeks, I remained up late every night and didn’t sleep at all. My boss took me aside on the day of the decision. He said they loved how hard I worked and how unique my ideas were. Then he asked me about my “background.”
He said it was a praise, but I knew he meant it as an insult.
“Just curious,” he said, “because you have this grit.” Like someone who knows how to get things done.
I laughed a little. “Yeah, I guess.” My mom used to clean other people’s houses. When I was a kid, I got food stamps.
He blinked. Too big of a smile. “That’s the kind of story we need to hear from leaders.” People like it when someone can do things on their own.
I got the job.
But that was unusual. It looked like someone had finally opened the door to my past and was using it to sell things. I didn’t feel proud; I felt weak. It felt like my mom’s disagreement was now a funny point in a business PowerPoint.
Then I called her.
I told her everything, from the potatoes to the unusual thing that happened with the boss to the chat in the hallway. While she listened, she didn’t say anything.
Then she said, “I didn’t keep things from you because I was ashamed.” I concealed them so you wouldn’t take them.
That stopped me in my tracks.
“But now that you know,” she replied, “maybe you don’t need to carry it.” You might utilize it.
And that stuck with me.
Over the next few months, I started working with a group that helped single parents find work and handle their money. I didn’t tell them I was doing it for my mom, but I was. I helped them get ready for interviews, fill out applications, and stretch their purchasing budgets. It made me feel like the world wasn’t just something that happened to people. You could fight back.
Mom’s knees were getting worse at the same time. I begged her to slow down and take on fewer clients. She said no. She said she wasn’t “ready to rot.”
So I did something sneaky.
I contacted Ms. Kaur, one of her oldest clients, and offered to clean for free so that Mom could “cut back.” Ms. Kaur laughed and said, “Your mom already does half of it for free.” She won’t even accept tips anymore.
In the end, I convinced Mom to let me pay for her to see a physical therapist. It was “Christmas early,” they said. She responded yes, but rolled her eyes.
Then the second change happened.
I met a woman named Talia in the group. She was 28 years old, had two kids, and was trying to end a horrible relationship. She looked like Mom in a way; her eyes were worn, but her mind was sharp. We became pals over apps for coupons and quick noodles.
One day, she came shaking. Her ex-boyfriend had gotten her new address. She didn’t feel safe. She had nowhere to go.
Without thinking, I gave her my key.
I had just signed a lease for a walk-up on the second floor. It wasn’t luxurious, with things like floors or baseboard heaters, but it was safe. I told her she could stay till she figured things out. She sobbed. I cried. We both had porridge for dinner that was overly wet.
That time? At that point, everything fell into place.
I always assumed that hiding your difficulties was the best way to stay alive. You made your cheese appear like cheddar. But maybe being strong meant giving away what you had, even if it wasn’t much. At that period, especially.
Talia eventually obtained a job at a bakery and her own house. She emailed me a picture of her youngest boy last week. He was carrying a backpack that was almost as big as he was. The first day of preschool.
Mom ultimately decided to cut her cleaning time in half in the meanwhile. She said she would “learn how to sit down without folding something” again.
Last month, I took her to a modest café in our hometown for dinner. There wasn’t anything fancy about it; the food and wine were great and didn’t come in a box. When the server came to take our order, Mom smiled and said, “She’ll have the mashed potatoes.”
I laughed. “Only if it’s real cheese.”
We both laughed out loud.
Mom told me that night, “You know, I used to be afraid you would grow up angry.” You would be mad with me for stuff you didn’t know.
I said to her, “I used to think that dish was love in a bowl.” I know it is now.
And it was.
The issue with difficulty is that it’s right in front of you. In lunch cartons that have been used before. In dim light and with cheap cheese. But it also transforms you. Lets you use what you already have. It shows you that having everything doesn’t make you a person of dignity. You have an effect on someone else when you make them feel like you believe they are proud of what they have, whether it’s time, energy, attention, or food.
So, yes. The potatoes weren’t anything spectacular. But how did Mom make them? That was a lot of cash.
Thank you for getting this far. Send this to someone in your life who has “made something out of nothing.” You’re not the only one who grew up on cheese blocks.
