Her love still feeds me

Chapter 1: The Woman Who Never Ate First They say love is when someone gives even when they have nothing. If that’s true, then my mother was love itself. She wasn’t a rich woman. In fact, sometimes there was barely enough to go around. But she had a heart so full that it made up for everything we lacked. I can still see her in the small kitchen, standing beside the old pot of soup that was never enough for everyone. She would serve us first, smiling as she dropped the last piece of meat into my plate. “Eat, my child,” she’d say not to be hungry. “I don’t feel like eating tonight.” But I knew better. I always knew. Even when her eyes were tired, and her hands trembled from a long day of work, she’d still find a way to make us laugh. She’d sing while washing clothes, or tease us about who would marry first. Her laughter was the kind that filled the whole house — warm and soft, like morning sunlight sneaking through the window. Sometimes, I wonder how she did it — how she carried so much pain, so much struggle, and still smiled like everything was fine. She never wore her sadness where we could see it. She hid it behind love. That’s who my mother was — a woman who would rather go hungry than watch her children cry. A woman who believed that happiness wasn’t about money, but about seeing her children’s plates full and their hearts at peace. And even though she’s gone now, her love still lingers. It lives in every meal I cook, every smile I force through my tears, every time I whisper, “Mama, I miss you.” Because I do. Every single day. ---