Layers of the Mind

She doesn’t ask me to tuck her in. She doesn’t reach for my hand when we cross the street. She doesn’t sit on my lap or crawl into my bed at 6 a.m. just to be close. And no one warned me that these tiny, ordinary moments would quietly disappear.

I didn’t mark the last time. Didn’t know it was the last until it just… stopped happening. No One Talks About This Part of Motherhood. They tell you how fast it goes. But they don’t tell you how painful it is to still be here, watching her grow away from the version of you she used to need. You become the background music to her life instead of the center stage. You’re not gone, just… fading into something quieter.

But Here’s What I Know Now

Even if she doesn’t curl up in my lap, She still needs to know it’s available. That my arms are still open. That my presence is still solid. Even if she says, “I’m fine,” She still wants to know I’ll ask again. Even if she rolls her eyes, She still listens to what I say, especially when I say it with love.

Mama, It’s Okay to Grieve This. You can miss who she was and still love who she’s becoming. You can feel the ache and still show up. This is the part where the love deepens, not because it’s easy, but because you keep offering it anyway. So no, she doesn’t sit on your lap anymore. But she still sits in your heart. And no growing-up will ever change that.