The Post's Cindy Adams with her late mother Jessica Heller. William Miller Mother of all memories Every Mother’s Day I print this tribute as a Mother Lover because I never loved any creature — man, woman, two-footed or four-footed — the way I loved my mom.
We came from nothing. Grandparents emigrated from Russia to Lower East Side, Grandma cleaned stoops and took in boarders. Grandpa, a bad tailor, never made a cent. Their baby Jessica, my mother, was born in Liverpool, on their way here.
Each generation improved. Mom, beautiful. English perfect.
Mother liked nothing about the dentist she married — including his teeth — and divorced him after I was born. An executive secretary, she was a single parent.
She later remarried. An insurance man. He became my real father and we all loved one another.
I was always sickly and — no matter what — she was always there.
Mother was beautiful. Me, not. Deciding I needed a little help, she had my nose fixed. Improved my hairline. Made me diet. Fed me little green iron tablets because I was always anemic. Gave me speech, posture, acting lessons.
She took me to a modeling agent. She said: “My daughter is going to be somebody.” Underwhelmed, they said: “Maybe, but not here.”
Cindy at 10 years old with her mother Jessica. William Miller My 1st champion When I was 15, ready for college, the principal denied my diploma because I couldn’t make the lousy-looking white lawn graduation dress that home ec required. My mother said: “Please. My kid’s not going to have to make her own clothes.” The principal said: “She doesn’t sew, she doesn’t graduate.” And I didn’t.
When I married, our apartments were one block apart. Constantly, that distance was spanned humanly and telephonically.
I remember once I hurt her, I was 8. A Maypole dance in the park.
Chilly morning. With all the children there, only my mother came bearing a sweater. I was mortified. No other mothers were babying their kids.
I hissed at her: “Go away!” She blinked at me. And she went away. But there were tears in her eyes.
This was civilizations ago, yet I still cannot wipe that image from my mind.
Cindy calls her dear mother her biggest champion. William Miller Yearly I am reduced to tears. My mother is gone.
When she lay unfocused and unspeaking in the hospital bed in the country home I provided for her, she was my life. Even those years when she didn’t know who I was, I knew who she was. I knew somewhere inside that shell was the stunning, bright, sassy, verbal, witty, vibrant, dynamic, fun-loving killer lady who had forever been my everything, the core of my being.
Hugging her, an icy stab of fear sliced through me. I sensed increasing fragility. I wanted to crawl into that bed alongside her. But no way. No room. Besides, I might frighten her. Worse, the bed might collapse.
So I pressed up close, my body flat against the side bars. I could only stroke that small head. And place against the cold steel bars a stuffed teddy bear so those curled fingers could touch something soft.
Understand, I was an only child. Then, married. So we were four. Then Dad went. We were three. Next, my husband. Then we were two. And now I’m one.
It’s tough to lose your mother. Years pass, but it’s still tough. I’d give up everything to give her a gentle hug today.
I well understand that, for whatever reasons, wide gaps exist between many a mother and child in many a family. Not for me to judge. Each of us must play the life hand we’re dealt. I say only that — if it’s within your ability and sensibility — call your mom on Sunday. Send flowers. Please, tell your mother you love her. I wish I could. I can’t anymore.
