‘Somewhere far, we’re close because we’re friends, not because you’re my mother. Somewhere far, you’re not a mother, and you’re free.’
Mothers are the law. This is my absolute truth.
I’ve been shaped, then reshaped, again and again by my mum. I have lived my life crashing against her, like waves from the same ocean do, thinking we’re as unalike as two strangers. My childhood was intensely intertwined with her motherhood; she and I have walked this impassioned boulevard, sometimes hand in hand, and sometimes at a distance. I’ve known her all my life, but she’s known me for a part of hers.
It happened all at once; I blinked and in front of me was Mum as a girl, as my friend. A gradual epiphany and a remorseful realisation gave way for me to see her, truly see her.
A woman who isn’t a mother or wife or daughter or sister–
a woman who is simply her name.
And you’ll never see them the same way again. Once you see your mum like the girl she has always been, someone who bore the prickles of responsibility, laid to rest undying judgement, and handled crass criticism, a complicated cavity will develop in you. Your world will limit itself– from the size of a universe to a planet to a house to a room, just a room. You’ll realise how small your mum looks. “Was she always this short?”, you’ll wonder, “Did I not notice her fragility? Why does she look like a vague shadow?”
For me, it opened my heart to a tender yearning affiliated only with her. She’d scold me if she read this, “You think too deeply!” she would say crossly, “I am not to be pitied, my child. Every decision in my life has guided me to this moment. For you to mourn a person that never existed, a life you wish for me to have led, is a fool’s game.”
Nothing stops me from dreaming, Mum. Like a fool, I’ve dreamt not only of what I can be but also of what you could’ve been. In another reality, you choose yourself, over, and over again. Every time.
Like a songbird, I rest on her balcony amongst the plants. I laze in the spring, in the sun, in her smile. She shoos me away, as one does with birds, but in her garden, she keeps water and food in a ceramic dish, every day like clockwork. Her joy is contained, her anger is loud, her sorrow is soft, and her love is shy, subtle, even secretive. My mum is an enigma and I’ll always be in a riveting grip when I talk of her. We barely look alike Mum, yet we’re two phases of the same moon. Me with my tall stature, curly hair, and heart-shaped face, and you with your petite look, straight hair, and round, glowing face… who would know we are each other’s mirror? A resemblance in how we cross our eyebrows when annoyed, or our shared satisfaction in sauceless pasta, or even the welcomed heartache of people who have long gone, that we ruminate over in one of our constant conversations stands as evidence, as an affirmation, that we are mother and daughter.
Mothers and daughters spend years raising a home that accepts each other’s eccentricity. My mother and her daughter have built a healthy, honest home from a hearth, from the rubble of disagreements, tears, grief, and foolish lies. A home sewn with silver threads of love, one that binds mother and daughter for eternity. In my mother’s embrace is my refuge, even though she laughs and playfully scolds me whenever I try to climb into her lap to be as close as possible. “You’re not a small kid anymore!” she says cracking up at my ticklish snuggle, and as a keen ‘physical touch believer’ (another part of life where we are diametrically opposed), I sulk and retreat childishly. She doesn’t say more but brings a smile and cuts fruits for me on a ceramic dish.
With a remarkable perfume collection, a passion for baking, and a dedicated admiration for British TV shows, along with an engineering degree and a professional career for a decade plus five under her belt, my mum has an interesting resume of her life. She may not have taught me how to forgive others freely, but she’s taught me how love is never wasted, education is power, and nostalgia is a silent torment.
She’s been present at every small, stupid, insignificant show, competition and teacher’s meeting since playschool. From an adventurous child who wanted to try every sport to a nervous teenager who lacked confidence in her music, my mum supported, uplifted, and reassured me. From maths tuition to netball matches and school plays, my mum dropped everything to fulfil my ambitions, which gave me a chance to dream for more. Mum, I can never repay you for all you’ve given me and all that you have sacrificed for my sake; nothing in this world can ever illustrate the respect I have for you. I call you my best friend and you hush me, saying we’re simply mother and daughter… but it is not true. For me, you are my friend before anything else; someone who will sit with me when I’m the last one eating, rewatch anything countless times for me, and bravely accept the agony their mistakes have given others. I, too, have watched you architect this version that stands before me today– a confident, honest, goal-driven woman with a friendly temperament and a welcoming personality. I do not idealise you but I always glow when someone calls us similar, even if it is only to say we sound identical on the phone!
Like every girl, I believe we will always have this patchy bond. And like every woman, I wouldn’t want this with anyone except for you.
Underneath it all, I admit my heart is swayed by you, by your every slight emotion. I hope this piece isn’t a burden, Mum. This is just me, just my heart, just us, and just you.
I think she will disapprove of this portion of my writing. After she reads it, perhaps when we’re talking on call and she’s grounding my overflowing sentiments, she might tell me I’m too serious (that makes two of us) and be slightly annoyed (but mostly shy, and hopefully touched).
A sigh and a small laugh,
on either end of the phone.
Two teacups, one with ginger and one with sugar. A slight squabble and 10 minutes into the call–
“Don’t be silly, Aadi,” she may say, “You always write things too gravely. Now, tell me, what did you eat today?”