There is something profoundly extraordinary about a mother. She can carry an ocean of pain within herself and still find the strength to smile at her child’s arrival. She can spend an entire night battling her own suffering, yet wake up in the morning with one concern: whether her children have eaten, slept well and reached their destinations safely. Perhaps this is the only love in the world that continues to give even when it has almost nothing left to give.

A mother’s love is not measured by the wealth she possesses, the gifts she offers or the words she speaks. It is reflected in the sacrifices she makes without announcing them, the dreams she postpones without complaint and the countless little acts of care that often go unnoticed. She cuts short her own desires to fulfil those of her children. She compromises on her comforts so that they can live comfortably. Her own ambitions may remain unfinished, but she never stops dreaming of a brighter tomorrow for them.
Whether she belongs to a wealthy household or a family struggling to make ends meet, a mother’s aspirations remain remarkably alike. She wants her children to rise above their circumstances, walk with dignity and live a life better than the one she has known. She may not be able to build a kingdom for them, but in her heart, she raises each child like a king. Her happiness is not necessarily in what she owns, but in what her children become.
What makes this affection even more extraordinary is that a mother rarely considers her sacrifices extraordinary. To her, preparing a meal, waiting for a child to return, asking about lunch or making a telephone call simply to know whether everything is alright are not acts of sacrifice. They are the natural language of motherhood. Yet, for a child who understands their meaning, these ordinary gestures eventually become priceless memories.
I would like to share here a personal experience of my beloved mother, one that has profoundly changed the way I understand a mother’s love, sacrifice and unconditional affection.
My mother spent nearly three years battling a life-consuming disease. Chemotherapy became part of her routine, hospital visits became familiar journeys, and the veins in her hands and arms endured repeated cannulations and the discomfort of treatment. Her body was going through a battle that words can hardly describe. Yet, what continues to astonish me is that even in the midst of her suffering, her greatest concern was never entirely about herself. It was always about her children.
I still remember returning home from work and opening the door to her room. The moment she recognized my voice; her eyes would light up with an indescribable joy. For those few moments, it seemed as though the pain her body had been enduring quietly retreated into the background. Her face expressed a happiness that no expensive gift or grand celebration could ever reproduce.
She would call me three times a day, sometimes just to ask, “Jana, are you alright? Have you had your lunch?” Those were not routine questions. They were little expressions of a heart that remained concerned about me even when her own body was fighting an exhausting battle.
In the evenings, she would repeatedly look towards the window, waiting for the familiar sound of the gate opening. Perhaps she was waiting for nothing more than the assurance that her child had returned home safely. I now realize that while I was occupied with the responsibilities of the outside world, someone inside that room had made my arrival the most awaited moment of her day.
Even during her hospital admissions, her maternal instincts never took a day off. I remember her telling me one morning, “Jana, have some eggs from the diet served by the hospital canteen.” Think about it: a woman undergoing treatment, surrounded by medicines and medical equipment, was still concerned about whether her son had eaten properly. Her illness had occupied her body, but it had never occupied the space in her heart reserved for her children.
For almost three years, I had watched her go through treatment, yet I never fully imagined that a day would come when I would have to live without her. Perhaps it was because, despite everything she was enduring, she maintained a physical strength and appearance that never allowed me to comprehend how close the final goodbye might be. I could see the treatment, I could see the pain, but I could not imagine the absence.
One evening, I sat beside her in her room at home. She was approaching the final moments of her life, though I did not understand it then. The thought that this could be our last evening together never crossed my mind. I had no idea that an ordinary evening, one that appeared no different from countless others, would become the last evening I would spend beside her.
On that night, before we went to sleep, I asked her, “Mama, are you alright? Have something to eat.” She gently replied that she would have some tea instead.
I still find it difficult to describe what followed that evening. After our last conversation, when I finally lay down to sleep, I felt an unusual restlessness that I cannot explain even today. It was as though I was lying on a bed of thorns, unable to find comfort or peace. The cold January night seemed unusually long, and something within me remained unsettled throughout those hours. The wind outside appeared to whisper through my ears, as though it was trying to tell me that something deeply precious was about to leave my life. I had no understanding of what those feelings meant.
When I saw my mother at 3:35 a.m., lying there numb, silent and motionless, something within me seemed to stop. The woman whose voice had once been the most familiar sound in my life was now completely silent. My eyes could see what was in front of me, but my mind simply refused to comprehend what had happened. I stood there in disbelief, unable to understand how everything had changed within a moment. ( To Be Continued)

Email:---------------------------iamaadilrather@gmail.com