The Light I Never Saw, But Always Felt

Her Love Was the Light I Didn’t See, But Always Felt

When I was young, I never truly noticed her love.

It wasn't loud or showy. She didn’t leave sweet notes in my lunchbox or cheer from the front row at every school event. She didn’t say “I love you” as often as other moms, nor did she smother me with hugs. Her love was quiet—tucked into routines and moments I thought were ordinary. But looking back now, I realize it was everywhere.

Her love was waking up at 5 a.m. to warm water on the stove when the heater wasn’t working. It was ironing my school uniform before I even opened my eyes, packing my lunch without fail—even when there was barely enough for herself. It was wrapping leftover roti in foil with a side of mango pickle, pretending she wasn’t hungry so I wouldn’t worry.

At the time, I didn’t recognize these things as love. I saw them as responsibilities, tasks, what mothers “just did.” I didn't stop to think about how she must have felt, waking up tired but doing it all anyway.

I remember one winter night, the electricity had gone out. I must have been about ten. The room was pitch dark, and I was scared. She didn’t say anything. She just placed a small oil lamp in the corner of my room and sat quietly on the floor next to my bed. The light barely filled the room, but it was enough. She was enough.

She didn't hold my hand. She didn’t even speak. But somehow, her presence calmed everything inside me.

That was her way—never saying much, never needing recognition, just being there.

As I grew older, I became restless. I wanted more from the world—more noise, more freedom, more space to define myself. I began pulling away, thinking her love was too plain, too simple, not enough. I thought love was supposed to be grand gestures, passionate speeches, picture-perfect memories.

When I left for university, I barely looked back. I didn’t notice the way her eyes followed me until the bus disappeared from view. I didn’t hear the silence she returned to in our home, where my laughter once echoed off the walls. I didn’t see the plate she still set for me at dinner, just in case I called.

I was busy building a life. Busy proving myself. I thought I was doing it all alone.

But I wasn’t.

Every time I stumbled, she was there—even if only in spirit. When I failed an exam and didn’t tell anyone, she still knew to call. “I just had a feeling,” she’d say. When I ran out of money, she’d quietly transfer whatever little she had saved, saying, “Use it for groceries.”

Her love traveled across cities, across silence, across the miles I had placed between us. It wrapped itself around me in invisible ways—guiding, shielding, healing.

And then one day, she fell ill.

I returned home, thinking I was coming back to take care of her. But the moment I stepped through the door, she smiled at me as if I had been gone just a moment. She still tried to cook my favorite meal, even when her hands shook. She still asked me if I had eaten, even though she could barely keep food down herself.

I broke down that night in the same room where she once placed the oil lamp.

That’s when it hit me.

Her love had always been the light in my life. Not blinding like the sun, but steady like the moon—always present, even when hidden behind clouds. I had never seen it fully, but I had always felt it.

In the way she brushed my hair behind my ears.

In the quiet sacrifices she never mentioned.

In the strength she lent me without asking for anything in return.

She was the warmth in the background, the quiet heartbeat of our home, the gravity that kept me grounded even when I thought I was floating away.

Now, I say “I love you” more often. I hold her hand. I sit by her side, even in silence. Because I’ve learned that love doesn’t always shout—it often whispers. And those whispers, when gone, are the loudest things you’ll ever miss.

So, if you still have someone whose love lives in the background of your life, don’t wait to notice.

Don’t wait until the room goes dark to realize who’s been keeping the light on all this time.

Closing Line:

Some loves aren’t loud. They’re steady.

Like light through a curtain.

Soft. Constant. And never once leaving you in the dark.