> When Mom came back,
something in me lit up —
like a flickering candle suddenly protected from the wind.
For the first time in what felt like forever,
I could breathe.
Not just air —
but home.
Because for all our silence, all our misunderstandings,
I love my mother.
I always have.
---
She's not perfect.
She's not soft.
She's not the kind of mother who whispers bedtime stories or braids your hair slowly on Sundays.
But she's a fighter.
A real one.
---
She gave birth to three children:
two girls, one boy.
But she raised over fifteen.
Some were her younger siblings —
because she was the eldest.
Some were children of Dad's other wives —
because no one else could handle them.
And some were just kids that found their way into our home because life had no better place for them.
---
> That's why I never truly blamed her for not giving me love like the other moms did.
Because before she became a mother,
she was a survivor.
---
Her own story is a wound wrapped in quiet strength.
Her parents — my grandparents — had two children.
An older boy, and her.
Then they separated.
And in that separation, the boy was lost.
Gone.
Just like that.
Which meant Mom became the only one left.
And the burden of being the eldest?
It landed on her shoulders like a mountain —
one she never really put down.
Her mother, my grandmother, was an alcoholic.
Fierce.
Unpredictable.
And so Mom did what strong girls always do in broken homes:
She gave up everything to protect others.
She left school early.
Took care of her step-siblings.
Worked.
Cooked.
Provided.
And that's how she ended up married to my dad at just seventeen.
Not because she was in love.
But because sometimes, help wears the face of a husband.
---
> She never really had the time or space to learn soft love.
She only knew sacrifice.
Only knew how to carry others while no one carried her.
---
So no,
she didn't always say "I love you."
She didn't always defend me when I needed her to.
She didn't always hold me when I cried.
But now that I'm older,
now that I've cried into my own pillow too many times…
> I understand.
And I forgive her.
Because life made her a soldier.
Not a poet.
And somehow, even with all her bruises —
she still came back for me.
---