When people ask, and I tell them that my mother’s a housewife, most will tell me how lucky I am. I’ve never spared much thought about it though. Only till recently, I realised how my mother would browse through the gallery in her phone and look back at photos, new and old, of my father. How she would almost stare at a single photo makes me believe that she’s admiring every single crevice that has formed under the eyes of a man whom she has devoted half her life to. My mother turns 50 today. Today also marks 25 years since she made her promise of love to her other half – solidifying her commitment and faithfulness to him. As a witness to their love over the years, seeing them still hold each other’s hands when we go out as a family, is especially warming.
I could tell that she was really happy. Having toiled and raised three sons with all her heart was a testament to her strength and courage. A labour of love as they call it. It is the kind of satisfaction I see in her smile, like how a farmer rejoices when the tree he’s been tending to for months during winter, finally bears fruit. I am sure that’s love. It is because of this love, I now know how lucky I am.