For as long as I can remember, when I looked around the dinner table, I was surrounded by mothers. My father got sick when I was very young, I had no brothers, and never met either of my maternal grandfathers. So I learned early on what motherhood really meant. Love and caring are often used to describe mothers, but those words don’t go deep enough.
There is one word that defines my mother, Debbie Barton: inspirational. And that’s not just a son’s praise—it’s the truth. She came from modest beginnings and worked hard to build a better life. She even flew to Germany during the war because she couldn’t stand being away from my father, who was stationed there. After returning home and starting a family, tragedy struck when my father suffered a stroke in his early 40s.
With nowhere to turn, my mother prayed—and found her answer in a newspaper ad for nurses. In her 40s, she went back to school and excelled, completing courses faster than expected and proving doubters wrong. She didn’t ask for handouts—she worked, fought, and built something admirable.
When retirement came, she chose not to slow down. Instead, she bought a bigger house so her grandchildren would always have a place to play. Even today, she continues working as a nurse, caring for disabled patients. That’s inspiration.
My sister Kim embodies another word: kindness. Nearly nine years older than me, she helped raise me during difficult times. She treated every moment with patience and compassion. A special needs teacher, religion instructor, and longtime Girl Scout leader, she gives her time selflessly. She even carries spiders out of the house instead of killing them. She has raised her daughters to see the good in the world and to always be kind.
Then there is my wife, Abby. The word that defines her is hope. She sees the world not for what it is, but for what it could be. When we met, I had very little, but she believed in me and pushed me through difficult times. That hope shaped our life together. Today, we look at our children and see that same spark in them—a gift passed down from their mother. Abby’s hope has built our future, and it continues to guide us every day.
Stefan Mychajliw, South Shore Press Digital Editor
Two incredible mothers in my life are the glue that holds our family together: my wife, Ashley, and my mother, Arlene June Mychajliw.
My mother was born into unimaginable hardship. Abandoned as a child, she was raised in orphanages and foster homes where she suffered abuse. She ran away as a teenager, and I don’t blame her. Despite having no example of a healthy family, she did her best to raise seven children, including me.
We were poor, and home life was often difficult. My father was an abusive alcoholic. But my mother gave me two gifts that shaped my life: faith and education. She encouraged me to attend Mass and made sure school came first. She connected me with a priest, Fr. Ronald Pecci, who became a mentor and father figure. That guidance changed my life.
Because of her, I worked hard, graduated from Syracuse University, and built a career in politics and journalism. My mother wasn’t perfect, but she did the best she could—and I owe everything to her.
Today, I see the opposite childhood in our three children—Maksym, Emeryk, and Victoria—and 99.999% of the credit goes to my wife, Ashley. She is a social worker with a natural gift for motherhood. She keeps our home running, sets boundaries, and fills our lives with love and stability.
Our children will never know hunger, hardship, or instability. That’s what every parent strives for—to give their children a better life. That’s the American Dream, and we are living it because of Ashley.
My mother passed away suddenly in 2013. Even now, I catch myself thinking, “I should call Mom.” I would give anything for one more conversation. If your mother is still here, tell her you love her—not just on Mother’s Day, but every day.
God bless all mothers for their sacrifice and love.