Happy Birthday Mom
I was fifteen when my mother died.
I loved her. So much.
And she loved me. I knew it. I felt it, even when the pain sealed her in a silence I couldn't reach.
She had fallen ill when I was still very young.
I lived my life with her by my side, but often absent.
Not by choice. Not by lack.
It was her body that betrayed her. It was the suffering that silenced her voice, her eyes, her smile.
Yet, I always felt her presence.
Even in her silence. Even in her tiredness.
Her presence was in her gestures, in her glances, in her always being there, even when she seemed to disappear.
When she left, I thought I couldn't make it.
Because she was my home. My anchor.
My mother, even when fragile, even when tired, even when in pain... she was everything.
And now, so many years later, something unexpected happened.
A letter.
A letter that arrived like a whisper from time, an unexpected gift, a caress from beyond.
The handwriting was hers.
And when I opened it, I heard her voice again.
Alive. Mine.
"My love,
I've only found the words now.
When I was alive, I didn't know how to tell you.
I had a lump in my throat that never dissolved.
And then I was silent. But inside I screamed love.
I lived next to a man who took my breath away.
He made me forget who I was.
He wanted me to be a mother, a servant, silent.
And I was afraid. I gave in.
When I said, "I was a broodmare," I wasn't talking about you.
I wasn't talking about us.
I was talking about myself, about what I had let myself be, about how little value I had allowed myself.
But you have always been my salvation.
Even when the pain took everything from me... you were the light.
My light.
If I couldn't hug you enough...
If I couldn't play with you, or be there in the ways you wanted...
know that I loved you with all my being.
Every fiber of my sick body, every breath tiring…
it was love for you.
Now that I can see you from here—free from pain, time, fear—I want to tell you:
Thank you. I love you. I see you. I recognize you.
And I'm proud of you.
You are stronger than me.
And this strength doesn't come from me: it passes through me.
Perhaps that was my greatest task: to give birth to you, to make you exist.
And to trust that you would carry the light forward for me too.
I hold you now, finally without boundaries.
You are no longer alone. And I am no longer far away.
- Mom,
Your message went through me like a wave.
I never needed to forgive you.
Because you were the best mother I could have wished for.
Even in pain. Even in silence.
Even when the illness seemed to take you away, I felt you.
I always saw you.
Beautiful, full of love, courageous.
Even fragile, yes… but never absent, never empty.
Your silent way of loving me taught me tenderness.
It taught me the truth.
It made me understand that love doesn't always need words.
When you died, I thought I wouldn't survive.
The pain was so great I couldn't breathe.
But something inside me clung to your strength.
To your memory. To your sweetness.
And now this letter.
Which doesn't ask for forgiveness.
Which doesn't justify anything, because there's no need.
Which simply says: "I loved you."
And I answer you like this:
Me too. I loved you. I love you. I will carry you with me. Always.
You didn't fail, Mom.
You weren't just a breeder.
You were root, nourishment, protection, love.
I grew up in your gaze.
And now I know I never truly lost you.
To my mother,
born July 17, 1926.
Today she would have turned 99.
She left too soon,
leaving a void that has never truly been filled.
And yet, between us, something has never broken:
an invisible thread,
a breath that still accompanies me,
a love that endures, even in silence.
This is our story,
written with bare hands,
with a broken and full heart.
I'm publishing it on Dragon Tales
because not all fairy tales end with "and they lived happily ever after."
Some, like ours,
begin after the end.
You never left.
And I never stopped looking for you.
Your daughter.
I loved her. So much.
And she loved me. I knew it. I felt it, even when the pain sealed her in a silence I couldn't reach.
She had fallen ill when I was still very young.
I lived my life with her by my side, but often absent.
Not by choice. Not by lack.
It was her body that betrayed her. It was the suffering that silenced her voice, her eyes, her smile.
Yet, I always felt her presence.
Even in her silence. Even in her tiredness.
Her presence was in her gestures, in her glances, in her always being there, even when she seemed to disappear.
When she left, I thought I couldn't make it.
Because she was my home. My anchor.
My mother, even when fragile, even when tired, even when in pain... she was everything.
And now, so many years later, something unexpected happened.
A letter.
A letter that arrived like a whisper from time, an unexpected gift, a caress from beyond.
The handwriting was hers.
And when I opened it, I heard her voice again.
Alive. Mine.
"My love,
I've only found the words now.
When I was alive, I didn't know how to tell you.
I had a lump in my throat that never dissolved.
And then I was silent. But inside I screamed love.
I lived next to a man who took my breath away.
He made me forget who I was.
He wanted me to be a mother, a servant, silent.
And I was afraid. I gave in.
When I said, "I was a broodmare," I wasn't talking about you.
I wasn't talking about us.
I was talking about myself, about what I had let myself be, about how little value I had allowed myself.
But you have always been my salvation.
Even when the pain took everything from me... you were the light.
My light.
If I couldn't hug you enough...
If I couldn't play with you, or be there in the ways you wanted...
know that I loved you with all my being.
Every fiber of my sick body, every breath tiring…
it was love for you.
Now that I can see you from here—free from pain, time, fear—I want to tell you:
Thank you. I love you. I see you. I recognize you.
And I'm proud of you.
You are stronger than me.
And this strength doesn't come from me: it passes through me.
Perhaps that was my greatest task: to give birth to you, to make you exist.
And to trust that you would carry the light forward for me too.
I hold you now, finally without boundaries.
You are no longer alone. And I am no longer far away.
- Mom,
Your message went through me like a wave.
I never needed to forgive you.
Because you were the best mother I could have wished for.
Even in pain. Even in silence.
Even when the illness seemed to take you away, I felt you.
I always saw you.
Beautiful, full of love, courageous.
Even fragile, yes… but never absent, never empty.
Your silent way of loving me taught me tenderness.
It taught me the truth.
It made me understand that love doesn't always need words.
When you died, I thought I wouldn't survive.
The pain was so great I couldn't breathe.
But something inside me clung to your strength.
To your memory. To your sweetness.
And now this letter.
Which doesn't ask for forgiveness.
Which doesn't justify anything, because there's no need.
Which simply says: "I loved you."
And I answer you like this:
Me too. I loved you. I love you. I will carry you with me. Always.
You didn't fail, Mom.
You weren't just a breeder.
You were root, nourishment, protection, love.
I grew up in your gaze.
And now I know I never truly lost you.
To my mother,
born July 17, 1926.
Today she would have turned 99.
She left too soon,
leaving a void that has never truly been filled.
And yet, between us, something has never broken:
an invisible thread,
a breath that still accompanies me,
a love that endures, even in silence.
This is our story,
written with bare hands,
with a broken and full heart.
I'm publishing it on Dragon Tales
because not all fairy tales end with "and they lived happily ever after."
Some, like ours,
begin after the end.
You never left.
And I never stopped looking for you.
Your daughter.
