in another world, my mother is not my mother

“i mean, she likes her life as a mother and wife but is that all she is?”

To be a man's wife is one thing, but to be the mother of his children is something else entirely—a weight that shifts and changes, a role that consumes you in ways you never anticipated. My mom, she’s a good mom..heck... she’s a great mom. I know that, deep down she is experiencing her life for the first time. but even great moms have moments when the seams of their carefully held-together lives start to fray, when the anxiety they’ve kept at bay crashes over them like a tidal wave. I’ve seen it in her—the way she sometimes explodes, as if the world is pressing down too hard. It doesn’t make her any less amazing, but i’m terrible at letting her know that I see her, that i’m grateful. and for that, i’m endlessly sorry. the last thing i want is for her to feel like her efforts go unnoticed, like she’s invisible.

She tries so hard, every single day, to be better, to be more. She forces a smile when my brother comes home with a less-than-perfect test score, bites back her frustration when I let her calls go unanswered for too long, and nods along when my dad’s monologues stretch on and on. But deep down, I think she didn’t imagine this life for herself. Sometimes, when she disappears into her room and the house feels strangely empty, I wonder what she’s thinking in the dark. I imagine her sitting there, surrounded by the shadows, her thoughts swirling like a storm, whispering to herself about how tired she is, how she wishes we could be more helpful, how she dreams of a break—a vacation, a day off, a moment to herself to watch a movie or read some hindi stories and poetry that she used to love so much.

There are moments, though, when her eyes light up with an curious wonder. when I share new information or tell her about innovations in the world, I see her eyes twinkle with a spark of joy. It’s as if, in those brief instances, the world outside her daily struggles momentarily reawakens her curiosity and passion.

Sometimes, I forget that my mom is more than a mother, more than my dad’s wife. She’s a person, just like me, with flesh that bruises and dreams that ache. Every night at two, she slips out of bed and quietly makes her way to the kitchen. There, in the dead of night, she indulges in her secret midnight munchies. It’s in those quiet moments, as I watch her—stealthy, almost childlike—that I see a glimpse of the little girl she once was, the one who still finds comfort in simple pleasures. I realise then that she’s a person—a woman with her own dreams, her own desires. she’s someone who, once upon a time, wanted more than this.

I picture her younger self, brimming with ambition, only to see those dreams fade into a life that wasn’t part of the plan. her confidence and hopes, she’s always been so determined, so driven—a perfectionist, She always wanted to be, she must have wanted a future that wasn’t just to be watered down to… whoever she thinks herself is now. running a hair salon wasn’t what she envisioned. she wanted to continue her education, to quench her thirst for knowledge, she wants to see things that she only dreamed of, of breaking free from the monotony that has become her cage.

I don’t know how to express my gratitude. i remember our childhood arguments, the times i screamed “I hate you,” and she still winces from cuts i must have given her that still ran deep. the pain i caused must have felt like a knife twisting in her heart. yet she never stopped being kind not just to us but to everyone—her friends, even strangers. she always wears a warm smile which instills a hope of brighter days in even the lost.

and when i try to express my gratitude, she often brushes it off, convinced i have an ulterior motive. so, i stopped trying. maybe i should have pushed harder, been more persistent. now, i am left feeling lost, unsure of how to lift some of the weight off her shoulders, how to ease the burdens she carries silently. i wish i knew how to help, how to make things better for her.

in another world, i don’t exist. my mother gets to live; not just survive

In another universe, i hope she never had to settle down. i hope she found happiness on her own terms. i imagine her working a job she loves, living in a city that brings her joy, surrounded by people who appreciate her. i hope in that world, her father is still alive. i’ll never forget the way she broke down when grandpa passed away—the way she cried like a child, the way i realised she needed her parents just as much as i need mine.

In another universe, i imagine her wandering through vibrant streets of foreign cities, her heart lighter with each new discovery. she tastes the richness of unfamiliar and new cuisines, i hope her days are filled with the company of new faces, each encounter a fresh chapter in a story she’s always wanted to write.

In another universe, she’s recognised for all that she is, for all that she does. i hope she comes home to a house that stays clean, where everything is just as she left it, where no one undermines her or mocks her simplest efforts. i hope her room is bigger, more fitting for the woman she is

In this other universe, i hope she doesn’t have any worries, she can walk into a store and buy whatever catches her eye without a second thought. i hope she doesn’t look in the mirror and see only wrinkles

In this other universe, i hope she’s living her best life as the woman she was always meant to be, not just as someone’s wife, not just as someone’s mother. i hope she never has to compromise again. and if the price of her happiness in that world is that i never existed—then so be it.