When did I become a mother?
Was it in the quiet shift of thought—
When I turned away from her chosen dress,
Yet silently hoped my child would love mine?
Was it in the laughter with friends,
Ignoring her calls that once called me home—
Only to wish, somewhere deep within,
That my child would run to me, missing me just the same?
Was it when her time flowed endlessly for me,
Stories, words, presence without pause—
And I, now counting moments,
Longing for even an hour of my son’s attention?
Was it in the pride she wore so effortlessly,
Celebrating my victories as her own—
While I, with tear-filled eyes,
Rejoiced at my child holding a pencil for the first time?
Was it in her gentle corrections,
Born from fear that I might fall—
And now my heart races at every small danger,
Every object my child reaches for?
Was it in her quiet prayers, whispered daily,
Invisible yet constant—
And me, finding faith anew,
Kneeling with hope for my child’s every tomorrow?
Was it in her messages that filled the day,
Simple words, pieces of her world—
While I ask my child, again and again,
“Were you happy today?”
Or was it never just one moment?
Perhaps becoming a mother
Is not a single turning point—
But a thousand quiet realizations,
A million unseen reflections.
For in loving him,
In worrying, waiting, hoping, and holding—
I am not just becoming a mother.
I am, slowly and surely,
Becoming my mother.
Becoming her...