It was on those rare nights when my mother, after working long shifts, reserved a portion of her energy to comply with my request for a bedtime story. I don’t remember the book I picked out. It wasn’t the grandest thing on my mind, as I was too preoccupied with savoring the moment that many of my companions at preschool talked about often. I barely brought up anything during conversations like those, but nonetheless, I would eagerly listen to the intimate connections my classmates had with their parents.
But on that particular night when my mother read me a story, I was curled up in the bedsheets and laid on top of a pillow that I was profoundly attached to. For years I would refuse to sleep without that distinct comfort beneath my head. On the outside, I looked to be asleep to my mother because the next thing I felt was a light peck to my forehead. The gesture surprised me more than anything I’ve experienced up until that point in my childhood and to the present day as I write this.
My mother was never the type to explicitly show affection such as pecks on the cheek or warm embraces. I used to think that if someone truly loved another individual, it had to be represented with physical gestures. I was young at the time and so I believed that there was no love professed between me and my mother. I ignored the telltale signs of fatigue she displayed after extended hours of work, but although I couldn’t see it at the time, I overlooked her actions that defined her version of love to the best of her capabilities. All those times when she silently cooked my favorite meals when I was struggling to get through the day, or when the appearance of my favorite snacks or essentials magically materialized in my room the next morning, they were all overlooked.
And that was the moment when I redefined what love was to me and considered the abundant versions that display this powerful emotion. The night shared between me and my mother will still stand as one of my fondest memories, but it also serves to remind me that love doesn’t solely exist in the form of affectionate kisses or embraces, but to each their own on how to expressively display tenderness.
But on that particular night when my mother read me a story, I was curled up in the bedsheets and laid on top of a pillow that I was profoundly attached to. For years I would refuse to sleep without that distinct comfort beneath my head. On the outside, I looked to be asleep to my mother because the next thing I felt was a light peck to my forehead. The gesture surprised me more than anything I’ve experienced up until that point in my childhood and to the present day as I write this.
My mother was never the type to explicitly show affection such as pecks on the cheek or warm embraces. I used to think that if someone truly loved another individual, it had to be represented with physical gestures. I was young at the time and so I believed that there was no love professed between me and my mother. I ignored the telltale signs of fatigue she displayed after extended hours of work, but although I couldn’t see it at the time, I overlooked her actions that defined her version of love to the best of her capabilities. All those times when she silently cooked my favorite meals when I was struggling to get through the day, or when the appearance of my favorite snacks or essentials magically materialized in my room the next morning, they were all overlooked.
And that was the moment when I redefined what love was to me and considered the abundant versions that display this powerful emotion. The night shared between me and my mother will still stand as one of my fondest memories, but it also serves to remind me that love doesn’t solely exist in the form of affectionate kisses or embraces, but to each their own on how to expressively display tenderness.
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