My mom loves me
I must begin by saying that my mother had a difficult childhood and adolescence, full of mistreatment and loneliness. She fell in love at a very young age with my father, her only love in the world, whom she had to watch die almost 9 years ago. Her mother, my grandmother, who abandoned her and did not want to know her because she had married my father, had to take care of her when she was ill and she also saw her die 3 years ago and finally, months ago she saw her last grandchild, my nephew, 18 years old, die. In other words, adulthood has not been easy either.
Not everything is hardness. My mother's heart is a big house where everyone lives, is what I tell her sometimes. She has her ways of showing affection, affection, interest; her language of love is in taking care of others, feeding them, keeping them company, protecting them. And that, perhaps, also has to do with old traumas: because she needs, at 71 years old, to be doing things, to be active, to be useful.
_What's wrong with you, what's wrong with you?
"Nothing,” I told her because I didn't know what I was feeling.
My mother insisted so much that I finally told her:
I think I fell in love, I said hesitantly and cried feeling like the stupidest person in the world.
I, who had dodged all Cupid's arrows with childish pride, had finally been hit by one of his arrows and in a distant city. My mother listened to me and pampered me as an animal pampers its young.
At that time, I remember, I looked like Christmas lights: I turned green, white and red with grief. I didn't understand why my mother had to say all those things. However, with time I have learned to value that speech, to appreciate it. Never before, ever, had I heard how valuable I was to her and to my family. It's not that I didn't know. I did. But it's one thing to be told and to tell someone else.