My precious miracles, my heart’s deepest dream—you, my children, my entire world. Being your mom isn’t just my role; it is my soul’s greatest purpose. I poured every ounce of myself into you, a love so boundless it consumed me, wrapped me in its warmth, and gave me life. I was the one who kissed your fevers away, cheered the loudest at every tiny triumph, and mended your broken toys with the same fierce tenderness I used to heal your tender hearts. “Mummy ko sab pata hai… Mummy sab theek kar degi,” you’d whisper, and oh, how I tried—giving you roots to stand firm, wings to touch the sky, every piece of my being to make you soar. You were my beautiful chaos, my loud, messy joy, and I’d have given my last breath for you then, just as I would now.
I was your hero once, your safe harbor, the answer to every question. But time has shifted us. My arms, once your cure for every hurt, now wait empty; my words, once your gospel, now met with a gentle “Haan pata hai Mumma.” The calls grow quieter, the hugs rarer, and I’ve become a whisper in your bustling lives—a sender of wishes, a payer of bills, a steady shadow on the sidelines. I see you shine—friends, dreams, career, love filling your days as they should—and my heart swells with pride. But I miss the scribbled “I love you, Mumma” notes, the surprise embraces that lit up my world. Now, a “Happy Birthday, Mom” feels like a fleeting mark on your calendar, and I smile through the ache, because that’s what mothers do—we let you go, piece by piece, with love that never falters.
Yet this isn’t the end of motherhood—it’s a tender transformation. Even when you’re near, earbuds in, screens glowing, I feel a thousand miles away. Did I cling too tight? Speak too much? My heart twists—do you still see me, or am I fading into the background? But I know this shift is life’s quiet gift. I gave you roots to stand tall and wings to fly free, forgetting I had wings of my own, tucked away beneath the years of giving.
Now, I’m learning to soar again. These hands, once soothing your fevers, now knit and crochet dreams, capture light in photographs, and cradle passions I’d set aside. My heart, tethered to your every scraped knee and bedtime tale, is rediscovering its own rhythm. I’m more than your mom— I am also a woman with stories yet to write, laughter yet to share, and adventures waiting. The silence isn’t empty; it’s where I find myself. And still, my prayers rise like a heartbeat: May you be healthy, kind, fearless. May you chase dreams that set your souls ablaze, find love that steadies you through storms, and hold each other close—tighter than my roots ever could. May you always know you’re my forever, carved into my very bones.
Even when we stumble—when you forget to call, when I hover too near—my love stands unshaken. You’re adults, my miracles, building lives I cheer for from afar, and I swallow the jagged quiet of missed moments with a smile. “Sorry, Mummy,” you say, and it’s enough—because love bends, it bruises, it endures. I’m no longer your center, but I’m still here, arms open, heart full, your biggest fan, your safe shore.
This unraveling is brutal and beautiful. Those Facebook memories—chubby cheeks, tight hugs, belly laughs—wreck me, tears falling as the past slips through my fingers. Enjoy this, I whisper, because it flees so fast. You’re my always, my life’s greatest masterpiece, my largest project, and now it’s my turn to soar—broken, alive, and wildly free. I will stand here, arms open, heart full. Still your biggest cheerleader. Still your safe space. Whether you call once a day or once a week, I will be here, loving you with the same fierce, unwavering devotion that brought you into this world. Because you are my forever.
