Celebrating The Mother Who Birth Me & Her Mother

I didn’t do anything for Mother’s Day. Not because I forgot my mother. But because… I genuinely didn’t know the day had come and gone. The Mother's Day I kept in mind was May 30th, so imagine my surprise.

I’m not proud of that though, but I won’t beat myself up either. There's another Mother’s Day coming up on the 30th of May, and I plan to do something special then. Maybe a small gift, maybe a sweet status post with a caption that says the things I don’t always say out loud. Mother's Day or not, my mum is a beautiful woman who deserves to be celebrated every day.

But to answer the question:

I Was Never a Caregiver… But I Saw One I’ve never been in a caregiver’s shoes, but I’ve watched my mother wear them.

Years ago, when my grandmother, her mother, was in her final days, I watched my mum care for her with a kind of strength that didn’t look romantic or noble. It looked exhausting but brave. And utterly, absolutely, extremely heartbreaking.

My grandma was dying.

I was young, but not too young to know something wasn’t right. I may not have fully understood the weight of what was happening, but I was grown enough to know that something precious was slipping away from us.

I watched my grandma lose weight. I watched her eyes drift somewhere else as hallucinations crept in. And I watched my mum hold everything together like she always does, quietly, firmly, painfully.

For a long time, I couldn’t go near the room where she passed. I remember how scared I used to be. As a child, grief came with questions. With nightmares.

But the fear isn’t there anymore. What I feel now is something different, a longing.

I wish I had grown up with a grandmother. The kind that spoils you and tells you old stories. I did, but not up to the age where I remember things about my childhood. Not till the age where you get to buy new sandals and Ankara for your grandma when you finally start earning a little money.

I wish she stayed long enough to receive that kind of love from me.

One memory that still shines is how effortlessly she showed up for us. Rain or shine, morning or night, she was already at the junction, waiting. Her feet in worn-out slippers, dressed in her iro and buba, ready to help without being asked. We didn’t need to call twice. She just came.

She was dependable in a way that didn't need an announcement. She just was. And that memory? That’s the one I like to hold on to. Because the other memories, the ones from her last days, they hurt.

I hate that her final chapter was filled with pain. That she spent her last moments not laughing or hugging her grandchildren, but slipping slowly into a place of suffering. I hate that those are the moments that stayed with me for so long. I hate that I was too young to stop it… and too old to forget it.

But here’s what I can say now, even if my voice shakes a little: She is resting now. And that gives me the slightest peace of satisfaction.

Not “I’m at peace with it”, because I’m not sure anyone truly is when they lose someone they love. But I’ve reached a place where I can sit with the memories and not feel swallowed by them. A place where I can say, “*She is resting now, and that’s enough for me.*”

Sometimes, I wonder how much worse it must’ve been for my mum. I was just a child, watching from the side, already scarred. But my mum, she was in it. Every bath, every scream, every fading breath, she was there. I don’t think I’ll ever understand the full depth of what she carried.

But I know it changed her. And I believe, now, she too has found her own peace, not because the pain disappeared, but because her mother is no longer in pain. Sometimes, that’s the only peace we get.

This Mother’s Day, I Remember Two Mothers. One who raised me. One who raised her. One still alive, beautiful, strong, whom I will celebrate softly, in my own way. And one who’s gone, but still very much alive in the parts of me and parts of my mom that miss her.

So no, I didn’t celebrate on May 12th. But I will celebrate my mom and the woman who wore her iro and buba, ready to be there whenever we needed her, come May 30th.

In response to LOH 237

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