I have always loved my mother.
After all, she's the best one there is.
Since before I can remember, it has always been just the two of us. Other people came and went - neighbours, teachers, fleeting acquaintances - but my mother and I were in a world of our own. She used to say we were stitched from the same thread, two halves of a whole. Even as a child, I believed that. I felt it.
She is the kind of woman people notice, though I doubt she sees it herself. She carries herself with an effortless grace, the kind that makes shopkeepers lean in when she speaks and strangers turn their heads as she walks by. There's something about her presence - serene and knowing, that makes you feel instantly at ease.
I grew up in the warmth of her devotion. She woke me with soft hands on my hair, humming a tune I never quite recognised but one that always felt familiar. She made my school lunches with little notes tucked inside, messages in looping handwriting; 'You're going to do brilliantly today' or 'Don't let anyone dim your light, sweetheart.' At night, she sat on the edge of my bed, reading to me until my eyelids grew heavy.
She has never raised her voice at me. Never lost patience. Never made me feel anything but utterly, completely safe.
"She's too soft on you," a teacher once told me after a school play, when my mother wrapped me in her coat because I was shivering. "You'll struggle in the real world if she keeps cushioning you like this."
I remember the way my mother only smiled, tucking my scarf tighter around my neck. 'There's no need to make the world crueler than it already is,' she'd said later, smoothing my hair. 'That's not love.'
And she is love.
When I cried, she held me. When I succeeded, she celebrated. When I doubted myself, she reminded me who I was.
Even now, at twenty-five, I still feel the pull of her certainty. When the world feels too sharp, too unpredictable, I come home, and everything softens. The house smells of lavender and something sweet she's been baking. The kettle is always on, and a fresh cup of tea is waiting before I even ask. She touches my cheek, studies my face, and always knows exactly what I need.
You look tired, sweetheart.
Come sit down, I'll take care of you.
And she does. Always.
I have never had to worry or think twice.
I have never needed to.
Because my mother loves me.
And love like this does not break.