The Sound of My Mother’s Quiet Love

There’s a certain silence between a mother and her grown child that doesn’t feel empty. It’s heavy with unspoken understanding, and yet, sometimes, deafening with the weight of everything not said.

I remember sitting across from my mother at the kitchen table last winter. She was peeling apples for a pie she wasn’t hungry for. I was talking about nothing really, something about work, how tired I felt, and how the days kept slipping through my fingers.

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She nodded, humming at the right pauses. But her eyes were far away, probably in some memory I wasn’t part of.

I stopped talking mid sentence. I don’t even think she noticed.
But then she placed a peeled apple slice in front of me. The best part is the crisp middle, where the sweet and tart meet just right.

That was her way of hearing me.

Mothers have a way of listening without needing to listen. It’s not about the words; it never really was. My mom doesn’t remember the names of my coworkers or that I said I might move apartments in June. But she remembers that I sigh heavier when I’m tired of pretending I’m okay.

She hears that pause between words and knows something’s off. She knows when I stop texting as often that I’m retreating again. She hears me in the…