Between Us

The cold morning sun shines through the window, making the room dull and devoid of emotion and life—much like how her presence fills the house but never quite touches me. The distance grows, and the silence is loud between us. The room feels colder when she walks away, wondering if her eyes will ever find mine if they could see beyond the routine.

Her hands moved methodically—folding, stirring, wiping. But there was something in the way she paused by the window, just for a second, her gaze lost in the gathering dusk. A brief moment, unnoticed, except by me. Was there ever a time she looked at me and truly saw me? Or had she always been looking past the person I was becoming?

There were moments, soft and fleeting, where I caught a glimpse of something more. I saw heaviness in her movements as though the weight of years had settled on her shoulders. And for the first time, I wondered—was she carrying it alone? Was she on her own the entire time? Am I being a selfish, non-understanding, and ungrateful daughter?

Things began to clear up, distance began to blur and I started seeing her not just as my mother, but as a human with her aspirations, dreams, and fears, navigating through the shadows of her existence. Those worn hands, the tired bodies, and the unspoken pain, now tell stories of her strength I once overlooked- each fold and stir carrying the weight of love disguised as a duty.

The silence was never about the devoid of love but rather about the space in which we needed to grow. As I watch her stand by the window, lost in thought, I understand—she sees me now, too; not how I want her to, but she does. In those fleeting moments, we’re no longer just mother and daughter; we are two souls learning to connect through the echoes of unspoken words.

But even as I start to see her differently, the truth remains—she still carries her pain, and I’m still struggling with my own. We’re both caught in our struggles, two separate storms that crash silently against one another, each of us longing for understanding but unsure how to reach out. Yet, amid our chaos, I feel something shift within me. I no longer see a distant figure; I see a woman who has fought her own battles, a mother who, despite her pain, still stands here.

And perhaps that’s the bridge, the realization we needed all along—an understanding that love doesn’t always come in. Sometimes, it’s found in the subtle gestures of care and the recognition and accountability of our own actions.

In that shared silence, I find new warmth, and for the first time, I feel her presence wrap around me, not as a ghost of unfulfilled expectations, but as a comforting reality of who we truly are together.