There are stories we carry in silence —

not because we don’t feel them,

but because we feel them too much.

This is one of mine.

It begins, as many do, with love.

I was my mother’s firstborn.

Born from joy, from intention, from the warm embrace of hope and dreams.

A daughter she had longed for,

a daughter she loved from the moment my first breath filled the room.

But love is not always enough to erase the ache that comes after.

Left, But Never Abandoned

I was less than a year old when my mother made the choice that would shape the foundation of our relationship.

A choice she made not out of rejection —

but out of duty, love, and the deep desire to give me more.

She handed me to my grandparents —

entrusting me to their arms while she went out into the world to build a life for us.

To work.

To earn.

To carve out a future for me, one more stable, more abundant, more worthy of the child she bore.

And I know this now:

She didn’t leave because she didn’t love me.

She left because she did.

But to a child —

the difference between love and absence isn’t always clear.

What I learned, even before I could speak,

was that safety lived in the arms of my grandmother.

Her scent, her voice, her quiet rituals of care became my compass.

She was the one who fed me, held me, comforted me in the night.

She became my emotional mother —

and my mother, in a way that breaks my heart to admit,

became a beautiful, aching stranger who loved me from a floor below.

The Hurt We Never Spoke Of

My mother tried.

God, she tried.

She would come home after work and call me to her.

She wanted to hug me, to feel me close.

But I was stiff, uncomfortable, always unsure.

I didn’t run to her like the other children.

I didn’t melt into her warmth like she longed for.

And even then —

even at three, four years old —

I could feel her heartbreak.

I could feel the sorrow behind her soft smile,

the question in her eyes:

“Why doesn’t she want me?”

But I didn’t have the words.

I didn’t know how to explain that I needed time.

That I wasn’t rejecting her —

I was just built differently.

Introverted.

Deeply sensitive.

Highly attuned to the energy of others.

Slow to trust, even slower to open.

Even now, as an adult,

I still flinch when strangers come too close.

Still feel overwhelmed by sudden acts of physical affection.

Still need space to feel safe in love.

And so I know —

I have always known —

that the way I loved her never matched the way she longed to be loved by me.

The Grief Behind Her Second Child

When I was nine, my mother asked me a question I would never forget.

“Would you like to study abroad?”

I said yes.

And in that moment,

I saw something shift in her eyes.

A silence.

A goodbye.

Shortly after, she told me she was planning to have another child.

Not because I wasn’t enough — she said —

but because she and my father would feel lonely when I left.

And maybe that was true.

But there was another truth too —

the one we never spoke aloud.

She wanted a second chance.

A child who wouldn’t flinch at her hugs.

A child who would run into her arms without hesitation.

A child who would instinctively return the love she gave —

without layers of silence, awkwardness, or fear.

My brother was born when I was ten.

And unlike me,

he lived with her.

He was raised in her warmth.

He belonged to her world in a way I never quite did.

And I don’t blame her.

I truly don’t.

I love her for wanting to love again,

for wanting to be needed in the way her heart ached for.

But still…

that wound remains.

Quiet.

Unspoken.

Tender.

The Daughter Who Never Learned to Ask

I was the child who never threw tantrums.

Never asked for toys.

Never cried out loud when I was hurt.

Not because I didn’t feel.

But because I had already learned —

somewhere deep in my bones —

to bury my needs before they became burdens.

I internalized everything.

My joys.

My fears.

My longings.

And even now, writing this —

my hands tremble with the fear of being misunderstood again.

Of making her feel like she failed.

When in truth,

I know she gave me everything she could.

But I must write this —

because healing begins with truth.

Because love, as sacred as it is, can still leave shadows.

And daughters, as silent as they are, still carry stories waiting to be heard.

I Love Her, Still

Despite it all —

or perhaps because of it —

I love my mother with the deepest respect and devotion.

She is a woman of great tenderness.

A heart that loves fearlessly.

A soul who has given and given,

even when her own needs went unseen.

And if this post reaches her heart someday,

I want her to know:

It wasn’t her fault.

I wasn’t broken.

I just loved… differently.

And now,

through this writing,

I am learning to meet her where she is —

and to let her finally see me

where I’ve always been.