Loveless Mother

She Doesn't Hug Me

Some mothers hug their children when they’re crying. Mine tells me to sit up straight.

“Crying won’t solve anything,” she says, like it’s a fact. Like gravity.

Her voice is calm, as always. Too calm. Even when I scraped my knee in Primary Four and ran to her with blood running down my leg, she didn’t panic. She handed me a wet towel and said, “Clean it. You’re not a baby.”

That was the day I learned pain wasn’t something we talk about in this house.

I’m seventeen now. I’ve stopped expecting anything soft from her.

—

This morning, she’s in the kitchen, pouring coffee into a cup like she does every day—flawless. Smooth hair. Perfect nails. A wristwatch that probably costs someone’s rent.

I stand there, watching her from the doorway.

“Morning,” I say.

She nods once. “You’re late for school.”

Not good morning, not how did you sleep. Just a reminder.

I swallow. “I have something to tell you.”

She glances at the clock. “Talk.”

“I made the shortlist for the speech competition. Finals are Friday.”

Silence.

Then: “Is that all?”

“I was hoping you could come watch…”

She picks up her coffee, takes a sip, and walks past me like I didn’t speak. Like I’m the sound of the fan—background noise.

That’s her love. Cold, quiet, invisible.

—

At school, nobody knows. They see my clean uniform, neat braids, nice shoes. They think I’m lucky. They don’t know I eat dinner alone most nights. Or that sometimes, I sit in the hallway just to hear another voice in the house—even if it’s the news on TV.

After class, I sit under the mango tree near the fence, recording a voice note I’ll never send.

Voice Note 154: Today she looked at me like I was a stranger in her kitchen. Maybe I am. Maybe I’ve been raised by a woman who doesn’t believe in warmth.

—

Later, when I get home, I see something strange.

The door to the guest room—the one that’s always locked—is open.

That room is her “storage space.” That’s what she calls it.

I step inside. The air is different here. Dusty. Still.

There’s a small shelf in the corner. On it, a silver music box. I open it slowly, and it starts to play. A soft lullaby. One I’ve never heard, but something about it makes my chest tighten.

“Don’t touch that.”

I freeze.

She’s standing behind me, arms crossed. Her voice isn’t angry. Just cold.

“This room is off limits.”

“I didn’t know,” I lie.

Her eyes meet mine. For once, there’s something in them—panic? Pain? I can’t tell.

She walks over, takes the music box from my hands, and closes it.

“Who gave you this?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But it played a song. It felt…”

“It’s old,” she cuts me off. “It belonged to someone else.”

“Who?”

She doesn’t answer. Just leaves the room, music box pressed to her chest like a secret.

—

That night, I can’t sleep.

Because for the first time, I saw her hold something like it mattered.

And it wasn’t me.