I was tired of it. Not tired of her , but tired of the invisible wall she’d built between her independence and our love. So I decided to run an experiment.
But here is what it will do:
One afternoon, she pulled out an old photo album. Black-and-white pictures. A young woman with my mother’s eyes but a harder jawline—her own mother, my grandmother, who raised five children after her husband left. My mother pointed to a photo of my grandmother ironing a shirt at 11 p.m. After a month of showering my mother with love ...
After a month of showering my mother with love, I thought I would feel triumphant. Instead, I felt humbled. Love, when given to someone who doesn’t know how to receive it, is not a reward. It’s a practice. It’s a muscle. And it hurts to exercise. I was tired of it
But here is the secret:
It wasn’t a thank-you. It was a key. She had just handed me the first real clue: No one ever thanked her either. I stopped trying so hard. That’s the paradox. The more I pushed love at her, the more she deflected. So week three, I tried something else. I just sat with her. No agenda. No “showering.” Just presence. But here is what it will do: One
I got in the car. When I arrived, she had made tea. Two cups. She didn't say thank you. She didn't say I love you. She just poured the tea and pushed the cup toward me.