Each year on Mother's Day, I wear a white carnation in honor of the mother I never knew.

As it is pinned on, I feel a moment of sadness for such a great loss - but just a moment! For in my heart, I know I should be carrying a large bouquet of beautiful red carnations in tribute to all the women who have in reality been mothers to me.

Some had never even given birth to a child, yet felt and responded to the needs of a motherless child.

I lived in five different homes before I was 6 years old.

I cannot tell you anything of the physical appearance of these mothers. The only memories I have from early homes include a marshmallow given as a reward for learning to tie my shoes and a comfortable warm feeling as I mounted a bannistered stairway on the way to bed... the carefree abandon of racing on a wide green lawn. Yet, I know that behind all this was a smiling, understanding mother. Some of these women were mothers of my friends. Two stand out in my memory.

One was the mother of a classmate whose birthday was the same as mine. They gave me a birthday present of a book, probably the first one I ever owned. The other was the mother of a dear friend.

I have an idea that I felt as if I belonged to those mothers, too. Some of my mothers had chosen careers other than homemaking and motherhood. One was an immigrant Jewish doctor, and one was an Irish Catholic schoolteacher. Barriers are few in the adventures of other mothers.

Not all would-be mothers succeed in their efforts. They may provide shelter, but somehow they do not make mothers. Sometimes the chosen child will not respond. In other cases there are some character flaws that create abuse. Some are not strong enough. Like myself, when I took in three foster children under the age of 5 when my two were 5 and 7, the successes are many.

One must have honorable mention.

She was the dean of the small college I attended in Chicago. She became a vital part of our family, called Aunt Pat by us all. It was Aunt Pat who came and did all the things that mothers do for the bride... sewing, entertaining and just plain loving.

It was Aunt Pat who enjoyed the small everyday news of a new tooth, or a new skill. It was Aunt Pat who listened to my ups and downs and shared our joys and sorrows. A busier, more versatile and resourceful personality could not be found. Yet she found time to be one of my mothers.

When she died, I was sad to find that I was the only person still writing to her at the nursing home where she spent her last days with Parkinson's. The staff thought I was her niece.

Yes, my mothers have been many.

So now, may I present to other mothers everywhere a beautiful bouquet of red roses on this Mother's Day, 2008. JULIE SOPHOS lives in Attleboro. Readers are welcome to submit 600-word columns for Your Turn.