Forgive Me, Mother — For Everything I Never Said

It’s been five years since you left, and I still can’t find the right words. Maybe that’s the real tragedy — how easily we speak in anger, but fall silent in love. Maybe I never told you what you truly deserved to hear.

This house hasn't changed much. The same curtains you stitched by hand still hang in the living room. Your favorite mug still sits in the cabinet, untouched. I can’t bring myself to wash away the last lipstick stain you left on it. Every corner whispers your name, but it’s my own voice I’m afraid to hear — the one filled with regret.

I was never good at showing love. You knew that. But you always showed it anyway. Every warm roti at midnight, every tucked-in blanket after a long day, every time you stood between me and the world — that was your way of saying “I love you.” And mine? Mine was just silence.

Do you remember that fight we had before I left for university? I said you didn’t understand me. I shouted that I didn’t need your advice, your rules, your "old-school" thinking. I packed my bags in anger, left without a hug. I thought I was strong, independent, smarter.

But strength, I’ve learned, isn’t walking away. It’s staying. It’s listening. It’s forgiving.

And you — you were the strongest woman I’ve ever known.

You just never said it out loud.

And I never told you I saw it.

You wore the same worn-out sandals for years so I could wear branded shoes to school. You skipped meals so I could have seconds. You stitched clothes late into the night to afford my books. And still, I called you “old-fashioned” when you told me money doesn’t grow on trees.

What I wouldn’t give to sit beside you now, even for five minutes. To apologize. To say thank you. To hear your voice one more time, even if it was scolding me for not eating breakfast.

They say grief fades. I disagree.

It changes, yes — from sharp tears to dull aches, from loud cries to quiet sighs — but it never disappears. It follows me on birthdays, on random evenings, in grocery stores when I pass your favorite biscuits. It follows me in dreams where you’re still around, laughing, living… until I wake up and remember all over again.

Last month, I found a letter you wrote but never gave me. It was folded inside one of my childhood books, in your handwriting:

“I know you’re angry sometimes. It’s okay. I get angry too. But I hope you always remember: no matter what, I love you more than anything in this world.”

I cried for an hour. Not just because I missed you. But because you loved me even when I didn’t deserve it.

I want you to know that I remember your sacrifices. Every one of them. I remember how you smiled through exhaustion, how you prayed quietly in the night, how you believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself.

But most of all, I remember what I never said:

I’m sorry.

I’m proud of you.

I love you.

I hope wherever you are, you can hear me now. I hope you know that I carry you in every word I write, in every choice I make, in every moment I try to be better than I was.

You taught me strength without shouting.

You taught me love without conditions.

And now, you’ve taught me silence — the kind that echoes forever.

So this is my confession. Not for sympathy. Not for closure. But because I owe you more than just memories. I owe you the truth I kept inside for far too long.

If I could go back, I’d say it every single day:

Thank you, Maa.

For the love. For the lessons.

For never giving up on me.

Even when I gave up on myself.

And if this page is all I have to offer now, then let it carry my words to wherever you are:

Forgive me.

For everything I never said.