In my mom’s mind, there is room for nothing but thoughts of her children.
Under the scorching sun, she pulls weeds while checking again and again whether the sesame seeds have ripened. She carefully threshes each one and sends them by courier, parcel by parcel, to her children living far away. Even after giving us everything she has, whenever she calls, she only asks how we are doing and if we need anything. In conversations entirely centered on me, I barely manage to ask how she is doing—but her answer is always the same.
“I’m fine. As long as you live well, that’s enough.”
I found it difficult to raise even two children, but my mom raised three. When my kids entered adolescence, even a single careless word from them wounded me. How many such wounds must have festered and scarred in my mom’s heart over the years?
Now that I’ve become a mother myself, I am beginning to understand her life little by little. I make up my mind to return the love I received—before it’s too late.