One afternoon, I received an unexpected call at work. It was the school nurse.
“Your child injured his knee during P.E. I think you should take him to the hospital.”
My heart dropped. I rushed to school without hesitation, swept my child into the car, and drove off—my mind a blank canvas of worry. Unsure where to turn, I contacted a few friends and was directed to a reputable orthopedic clinic nearby. After X-rays and several tests, the doctor recommended we go to a larger hospital. Thanks to prompt action, my child received surgery without delay.
Once the crisis had passed, I called my mom. She anxiously inquired about her grandchild, asking again and again for details. When I finally assured her that everything was okay, she sighed in relief and quietly said:
“That hospital’s still there, huh? I used to go there often back when I worked at the factory. Hurt my hand pretty bad a few times.”
“You did? I don’t remember that at all.”
“I got hurt a lot. Sliced my hand on a machine, fractured some bones in a fall . . . But you were little then. You wouldn’t have known.”
She said it lightly as though it were nothing. But I was struck with guilt. I could recall every detail of my child’s injury—the moment it happened, how much they cried, the pain in their voice. But when had I ever asked my mom about hers? Had I even noticed?
My thoughts turned to Heavenly Mother. How often must She hide Her pain behind a gentle smile, always holding Her children close, never letting them see Her wounds? From now on, I want to be a daughter who sees beyond the smile—one who remembers not only the comfort She gives, but also the quiet pain She endures.