A MOTHER’S LOVE

Some silences echo louder than lullabies

The first child was a dream.

Which is to say:
quiet, undemanding,
content to sleep.

She could work.
Think.
Imagine a future.

Ambition lived somewhere behind her ribs,
flickering,
waiting for air.

Then came the second.

Dark eyes, wide and ancient.
A baby who stared instead of cried.
Who watched her,

not like a child—
but like someone taking notes.

One afternoon,
something passed between them.

A break in the rhythm.

A wound neither of them would name.

The child didn’t cry.
She didn’t apologize.

They simply continued.

Time moved.

A third came along—
unexpected,
soft at the edges.

She couldn’t feel it.
Not at first.

She went through the motions.
Said the words.

But something was missing.

Or maybe still bruised.

Love bloomed slow,
and late,
and crooked.

But sometimes,
even years later,
something surfaced
without warning.

She never said it aloud.

She just pulled the blanket up
to their chin,
and whispered,

“Goodnight, baby.”

And meant it.

Almost.