She Always Heard Me

I didn’t always understand my mother.

But she always… understood me.

Even when I never said a word.

⸻

I used to scream in silence.

As a child — I wouldn’t cry. Wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t explain.

I’d sit on the kitchen floor, arms around my knees, staring at nothing.

But somehow…

She always knew.

She never asked, “What’s wrong?”

She just sat down beside me. Quiet. Close.

And eventually…

I’d lean into her.

She’d whisper:

“I’m here.”

“You don’t have to speak. I hear you.”

⸻

She worked two jobs.

Came home with aching feet.

Still packed my lunch with notes.

Still left tissues in my jacket pocket.

I used to think that was just “being a mom.”

Now I know…

It was love, disguised as routine.

⸻

Years later, I moved away.

Life got loud. Fast.

I forgot to call…

But she didn’t.

Every Sunday:

“Just checking in. You doing okay?”

I’d say, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But she’d pause and say,

“Okay. But if you’re not — I still hear you.”

⸻

When she got sick…

She didn’t tell me at first.

Said she didn’t want to make me worry.

I said, “You should’ve told me.”

She smiled and whispered:

“You would’ve heard me anyway.”

⸻

At the end…

I sat by her hospital bed.

She couldn’t speak.

But I leaned in and said:

“I hear you.”

“You don’t have to speak. I’m here.”

⸻

Now, sometimes,

I just sit on the kitchen floor.

In the quiet.

And I swear…

She’s right there beside me.

Because love like that —

Real, quiet, unshakable love —

Doesn’t need words.

It never did.