Ma,

I’m not sure how to begin this. I’m sitting in semi-darkness at 11:47 pm on a Thursday night, staring at the gilded lights peter out in the building facing ours.

Today, I could see your exhaustion. It crept into your face, slowed your limbs, tugged your lips in a frown, and left a ghost of worry flitting over your features every now and then. A hundred calls, ordering medicines, a nagging family, and no peace and quiet or any time to yourself – sometimes I wonder how your shoulders stay upright, as if an iron rod holds them up.

I asked you today how you’re so strong all the time – and you answered with a mirthless laugh that it’s because you need to be. I’m sorry that it became a necessity at all. I hope that I’m never the reason for your distress – and if I ever am, I hope I realise soon after.

It’s not just about the physical labour itself – I suspect it’s an amalgamation of the constant mental stress of so many people relying on you, the exhaustion from never getting a break from “momming”, and having to defend yourself even when you’re not wrong.

To be honest, I’m not writing with some purpose or to wax poetic. I’m merely penning my thoughts down so that in the future, I can remind myself of these facts, of your struggle, and of the hope that with time, life is a little easier on you.
I simply hope that you find some pockets of time for yourself – no contingencies, no responsibilities, no phone calls to drive you to insanity. And I certainly hope you realise how strong you are.

I guess I’m writing to tell you… I love you, and that we will try our best to make sure you don’t have to be the Woman of Tungsten all the time.

Love,
Your Daughter