The Moment I Realized My Mom Was a Mail-Order Bride

Katya Suvorova's coming-of-age story speaks volumes about her resilience—and about how broken immigration is in the U.S. In her equally poignant and witty debut memoir, Ungrateful Immigrant Daughter, the writer and activist unpacks her childhood living undocumented in Houston, Texas. A unique story of survival and complicated parent-child relationships, Suvorova explores how she lived precariously alongside her mother, who fought for their safety and citizenship as a Russian mail-order bride.

Suvorova writes about how she distanced herself from her mother (and later wrestled with their estrangement) after she realized the truth about her mother's profession at 17. Before the highly anticipated book hits shelves on September 29, the author has shared an exclusive excerpt with Marie Claire in which she recalls the moment she realized her mother was a mail-order bride and confronted her about it.

Eleventh Grade, 17 Years Old

It’s Houston humid and my skin is boiling off my bones. I hate being outside right now—it feels like you’re stuck in someone’s mouth and they’ve gargled with gasoline. And the worst part is that it’s not even summer yet.

My stepdad says I need to spend the day cleaning the garage. I hate being out here, but I like this chore because my nosiness is sanctioned for the sake of organization.

Halfway through rifling through his stuff I’ve decided my stepdad has never been interesting in his life. This whole four car garage is filled with his shit and all of it sucks. There is a box of Megan McLachlan CDs and posters, another box containing “Most Improved” awards from what looks like a summer camp he went to 100 years ago, and a binder with several emails printed out and put in plastic sleeves of other people giving him kudos at his job. I don’t know what I was hoping to find, but it’s not this garbage.

When I go to put everything on the curb for trash collection, I find a box belonging to Mom. It’s not marked as hers, but I can tell it is because it looks like a family of rats was living inside of it. The lid is torn, there is a weird, peppery smell coming from the opening that I’m sure is probably her Russian witch medicine. Everything Mom owns is disheveled, but it surprises me that she has a box in here, because she usually keeps all her things in her closet behind lock and key. After her last husband had torn and burned her clothes and the family photos, she is vigilant about her things.

I flip open the box, hungrily. There are some tiny Russian horoscope pamphlets, Houston newspapers from the '90s, and a magazine I would recognize anywhere. Mom showed it to me when I was little. I remember it as her modeling catalogue. I was so enthralled with it.

Rose Russians.

“Rose Russians,” I mumble. “Rose Russians?”

I scan the pages.

This does not look like Russian Vogue.

This doesn’t look like a fashion magazine at all.

This catalogue is clogged with women, but they don’t look like they’re advertising clothes. They’re posing in front of beds, in front of houses, up close, on chairs, crossing their legs.

My hands are buzzing as I slide down to the concrete floor of the garage.

I flip to a dog-eared page and find Mom’s face quickly. Her photo takes up a quarter of a page. It’s tiny compared to some of these other women’s photos. There is a smattering of text next to it. I read the words slowly, carefully. I’m looking for a family and eternal love.

My stomach drops.

“Son of a bitch,” I whisper. “She’s a mail-order bride.”

I walk out of the garage, my mind racing, and head to my room. I think back on where I had first seen the catalogue with my mother’s face looking out from the glossy pages. I remember going home to my mom after career day in first grade and asking her what she did for a job. She told me she was a model. She showed me the same magazine I have in my hands now. I didn’t know how to read, so I assumed she was holding the Russian equivalent of Vogue. My mom had always told me she modeled and waitressed in Russia. She had a degree, but she could make more money with her appearance than her brains.

I feel angry, thinking about all the weird details of my life. Details I knew weren’t normal for other kids but were normal for me. My stepdad is so much older than her. We have a huge house. I remember how she had a salary requirement when she was searching for a husband.

I scoff.

I think about Jen’s mom, who is a lawyer. Maritzia’s mom cleans houses, Layla’s mom raised Layla and her siblings.

All my friends have issues with their parents, but they have mothers they can respect.

A chilling feeling emerges in my gut.

I have to be better than my mom. If I’m not better than her, I will end up like her.

Dependent on a man.

I can’t have that life.

I go downstairs, ready to put the magazine back where I found it.

My hand is on the doorknob of the garage when I hear Mom’s bedroom door open.

“Katyusha,” she says. I look around me and realize I don’t have anywhere to hide the magazine. “Are you done cleaning the garage?”

She comes closer to me and her eyes brighten when she notices what’s in my hands.

“Where did you find this?” Mom asks, a crease in her forehead, her tone sharp.

When she asks me this, I realize I am so angry I could explode.

“In the garage, when I was cleaning.”

“I don’t appreciate you going through my stuff,” she says, back.

“You told me you were a model for Coke,” I say, “I didn’t know you were actually a mail-order bride.”

“A what?” she asks, like she is confused.

I point to the magazine. “Mail-order bride. That’s what we call women who sell themselves.” Mom is usually the mean one. Now it’s my turn.

Mom sighs, closing her eyes. I can’t read what she is thinking. I can hardly ever read what she was thinking.

Finally, she says, “Everyone I know was doing it,” in her chopped Russian accent.

I don’t respond.

She adds, gently, “It’s how we got out.”

Mom is wearing a mini skirt and a tight, hot pink, spaghetti-strapped shirt. When I was little, I remember asking her to wear pants and regular-sleeved shirts like my friend Dream’s mom. I always wanted my mom to be the same, and this just proves how different she is. I hate it.

Mom comes closer to me, her face red. I don’t know if she’s angry or if she’s ashamed.

“You could have had a more respectable occupation,” I say. I stand up taller; I feel better than her. More powerful.

“A what?”

“A job. You could have had a regular job. Come here on a worker visa or something.”

I am more American than she is. I’m not as low as she is. I speak in words she doesn’t understand.

“I— You don’t understand how it was back then. Besides, I didn’t marry anyone until later.”

“Who was Joe?” I ask.

Our story is clicking into place for me, and I hate it.

“He helped us cross the border. It was different with him.”

“Did you promise him sex to do it?” I spit the words, aiming them at her.

She looks away. “It’s none of your business,” she responds.

I bite down on my teeth. I want to call her a prostitute. I want to keep pummeling her. I want my words to hurt.

“Why did you tell me you were a model?” I seethed. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“What else did I have?” She shouts, her eyes watery. For a moment I think she is going to slap me. “You came back from school and talked about how everyone had a job for this fucking job fair. What did you want me to say? I show you the magazine. I—I had nothing else.”

I feel deflated. I want a normal mom. A mom who respects herself. An American mom, who wouldn’t be caught dead in a catalog, waiting to be bought.

I want her to be more than a mail-order bride. I want her to stand up for herself, to stand up for me, to not have had to sacrifice everything, including her own daughter.

I want her to be strong. I want to be proud of her. I want her to use her fucking voice instead of this chopped accent that she has, this accent that people label as whorish because she is Eastern European.

I slam the magazine down, leaving it for her.

“You sold me too!” I yell, walking away.

Excerpted from UNGRATEFUL IMMIGRANT DAUGHTER © 2026 by Katya Suvorova. Reprinted with permission from Alcove Press. All rights reserved