"Taught with Care"

I was never taught with loud words or heavy books. I was taught with hands that never let go, with eyes that saw me even when I couldn’t see myself, and with a heart that beat louder for me than for its own self. I was taught with care—by my mother.

She wasn’t educated in the ways the world often measures intelligence. She never went to college. She never had titles before or after her name. But my mother had wisdom—earned through hardship, grown through love, and delivered with patience.

Every morning, before the sun stretched across our windows, she was already awake. Her hands, dry and cracked, would knead dough with the same rhythm every day. She moved quietly, almost invisibly, yet her presence filled every corner of the house. I remember watching her from behind the doorway as she packed my lunch, humming a soft tune from her childhood. I didn’t know the song, but somehow it made me feel safe.

“Do everything with your heart,” she told me once, while folding my clothes with care. “Even if no one sees it.”

At the time, I didn’t understand the depth of that sentence. I was young, distracted by friends, school, and the whirl of dreams I hadn’t yet defined. But over the years, her voice echoed through the choices I made. When I struggled with my studies, when I failed an exam, or when I didn’t fit in—her voice reminded me to keep trying, not for applause, but because it mattered to try.

One winter evening, I came home crying after being ridiculed in class for my old shoes. My classmates had laughed, and I wanted to disappear. I slammed the door behind me, embarrassed and angry.

She didn’t say much at first. She simply sat beside me, her hand resting gently on my back.

“People who laugh at others have pain in their hearts,” she said softly. “Let your heart stay kind.”

“But why don’t I have new shoes?” I snapped.

She looked at me and didn’t scold. Instead, she took off her own shoes—worn and even older than mine. “Because I gave the new ones to you.”

I cried harder then—not from shame, but from something else. That night, I learned about sacrifice. About quiet giving. About love that speaks without words.

Years passed. I grew older. Moved to the city for university. And life became busy. But she remained the anchor of my being. Her calls were brief, never filled with complaints. Only reminders: “Eat well.” “Sleep on time.” “Take care of your heart.”

I once asked her why she never chased dreams like I did. Why she stayed in the small village, tending a home that seemed too humble for her spirit.

She smiled. “Because I placed all my dreams in you. And I’ve watched them come true.”

When she fell sick, I rushed back. The house was quieter than I remembered. Smaller. But she still smiled the same. Still offered me tea before thinking of herself. Still whispered, “I’m proud of you,” even when she could barely speak.

In those final days, I sat by her bedside. Held her hand like she had held mine all my life. And I told her everything I had never said out loud.

“Everything I am… is because of you.”

She only nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek.

The morning she passed, the sky was the softest shade of gray. Not stormy. Not sunny. Just quiet. Like her. Like her love.

Now, I walk through life carrying pieces of her. I see her in the way I tie my hair. In the way I fold clothes. In the way I listen to others with patience. I see her when I help someone without expecting anything in return. When I choose kindness over pride. When I push through challenges with quiet strength.

I was taught with care. And now, I teach others the same way.

Not with loud words or heavy books—but with love, patience, and sacrifice.

Just like she did.