The world feels quieter now. Not in the way that bedtime silence settles over a room, but in a way that stretches through every moment, filling spaces where a voice used to be, where laughter once lived. The mornings aren’t the same. There’s no soft humming in the kitchen, no gentle hands smoothing out wrinkles in my dress before school, no whispered reminders to wear a jacket. The air feels heavier, like something is missing from it, something warm and familiar.
I miss the way my mother smelled—like vanilla and something floral, something soft. I miss the way her hands felt against my forehead when I was sick, the way she could braid my hair just right, never too tight, never too loose. There are things I try to hold onto, memories I play over and over again, afraid that if I don’t, they will start to fade. The sound of her voice is the hardest. Some days, it feels so clear, as if she had just spoken. Other days, it’s like chasing something in a dream—always just out of reach.
At school, I pretend things are normal. I laugh when I’m supposed to, join games at recess, finish my homework. But there are moments, little cracks in the day, when the emptiness seeps in. A classmate will mention their mom picking them up, or I’ll see another girl holding her mother’s hand, and suddenly, it’s there again—that hollow ache in my chest.
At home, the quiet feels even louder. The house still smells the same, but it isn’t the same. My father tries. He packs my lunches and brushes my hair, even when he can’t quite get the part straight. He tucks in my blankets at night and makes dinner, though sometimes it’s just toast and scrambled eggs. He is trying so hard. I see it in the way his eyes linger on the empty chair at the table, in the way he hesitates before saying goodnight, as if waiting for another voice to join him.
I want to be strong for him. I don’t want him to worry. So I smile, I laugh, I tell him about my day. But there are nights when the weight of it all is too much, when I curl under my blankets and let the tears fall silently, afraid that if I cry out loud, it will make it too real.
I miss the way my mother made the world feel safe. How her touch could fix any bad day, how her voice could turn sadness into something softer, something bearable. Now, the world feels too big, too unpredictable. There are questions no one can answer, things no one can fix.
But even in the sadness, I know love hasn’t disappeared. It’s in the way my father holds my hand a little longer when crossing the street. It’s in the way he sits beside me during storms, even though he never used to. It’s in the whispered goodnights, the small reminders that I am not alone.
Still, the ache remains. A quiet, persistent thing, like a shadow that never fully disappears. Some days are easier than others. Some days, I can remember without the heaviness, without the sting. And on the hardest days, I let myself imagine—just for a moment—that if I close my eyes and stay very still, I can feel my mother’s arms around me once more.