Conversation with My Mom

The rain tapped gently on the old tin roof. The electricity had gone out again, as usual in the village, and the only source of light was the flickering lantern hanging from the ceiling. I was sitting on my mother’s charpai, scrolling through my phone, lost in the endless noise of the world outside — completely unaware of the quiet storm building inside her heart.

She looked at me.

"Son..."
Her voice was soft, almost as if it was afraid to disturb my digital world.

"Hmm?" I replied, still half-focused on the screen.

She paused. "Can you put that thing down for a moment? I want to talk to you."

I looked up, a little annoyed, but something in her eyes stopped me. There was a kind of tiredness there... but not physical — it was deeper, older, and quietly broken.

I locked my phone and sat up straighter.

"What's wrong, Ammi?"

She smiled, but it wasn’t the usual warm smile. It was the kind of smile you give when you’re trying to hide a lifetime of words behind silence.

"Nothing’s wrong, beta. I was just remembering things… the time when you were small. You used to hold my finger so tightly. You wouldn’t let me go even for a second."

I smiled too. "I was a clingy kid."

"You were my world," she said, her eyes misting up.

Then silence.

And then — she spoke again, slower this time, with pauses that felt like cracks in the heart:

"You know... I used to carry you all night when you were sick. I stayed awake, pressing your head when you had fever. You’d cry and I’d panic. And now… I see you tired, stressed, and I still feel the same panic. But I can't carry you anymore. I can’t take your pain away."

My throat tightened. I looked away, but she gently turned my face back toward her with her hand.

"You've grown up. And with that, you've grown distant. I understand. This is life. But sometimes, I miss you — not the grown-up you. I miss my baby. The one who would fall asleep in my lap, who would cry for me even when I went to the next room."

I tried to say something, but nothing came out.

She kept going, almost as if she had waited years for this moment.

"I don’t need gifts, or money, or fancy things, beta. I just need you. Your time. Your voice. Your presence."

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she didn’t bother to wipe them. Maybe they’d been waiting longer than I realized.

"Do you remember the day you left for college? You hugged me and said, ‘I’ll call every day.’ But days became weeks, and weeks became silence. And I kept waiting. Not with anger. Just... quiet waiting."

I couldn’t look at her anymore.

She sighed. "Beta, do you know what hurts most? It’s not that you got busy. It’s that I became too small to fit into your big world. I became a memory you visit on Eid, a voice you reply to with ‘I’ll call you back, Ammi.’"

My tears were flowing now, shamelessly, like a child again.

"I’m sorry, Ammi," I whispered.

She smiled, finally wiping her tears. "No need to say sorry. You are my dua. How can I ever be angry at my own dua?"

Then she pulled me close, placed my head on her shoulder, and gently ran her fingers through my hair — just like she did when I was a child.

In that moment, I felt something I hadn't felt in years — peace.

---

That night, I didn’t touch my phone again.
I just sat there, listening to my mother breathe, memorizing the rhythm of her heartbeat, the warmth of her touch, and the quiet wisdom in her tears.

We didn't say much after that.

But sometimes... the most powerful conversations are the ones where the heart speaks louder than the words.

---

🌸 Moral of the Story:

We often get so busy chasing success, deadlines, and dreams that we forget the people who built the foundation for all of it — our parents. Especially mothers. Their love is unconditional, their sacrifice invisible, and their patience endless.

So before it’s too late… talk to your mom. Hug her. Listen to her. Because one day, her silence will echo louder than anything in this world.