This December, we all came back home. Twenty-five years or more under our belts, over 300 kilograms combined (and counting), a cacophony of laughter, animated conversations, and shared history under one roof. It had been years since all the siblings were together like this, a reunion that left our mother beaming. She was radiant—ecstatic, even—her love language flowing freely in the form of a fridge stacked for an impending apocalypse.
Every morning began the same way: coffee brewing, sleepy eyes adjusting, and the inevitable question, “What would you like to have for lunch?” It’s my mother’s way of showing love, her most fluent language. She speaks it eloquently, richly, and with a depth that feeds not just our stomachs but also our souls. It’s a love we’ve come to cherish, recognize, and sometimes carry into our relationships—whether or not we realize it. Friends know about it, our social media followers know about it, and even strangers we’ve met briefly have caught a glimpse of it.
This visit was nothing out of the ordinary. No dramatic arguments or explosive laughter-filled moments, just the comforting hum of family life. And yet, there was this one afternoon that stayed with me.
I had just returned from a morning coffee with friends, followed closely by my two brothers. We entered through the main door and, like clockwork, headed straight to the kitchen. No detours. Bags, keys, phones in tow, we set up camp around our mother, who was in her element, crafting a multi-layered strawberry trifle so exquisite it could make grown men weep.
For a brief moment, it felt as though I had left my body. I saw the scene unfold from above, like a wide-angle shot in a documentary—a mother surrounded by her grown children, orbiting her as naturally as ducklings follow their mother. It struck me then: this phenomenon doesn’t ever truly stop. We may grow older, more independent, but the gravitational pull remains, tethering us to her orbit.
I laughed to myself but didn’t say a word. Instead, I observed the familiar rhythm of our lives:
- “Where’s Mum?” we ask as soon as we step into the house.
- “Where’s Mum?” we repeat when we realize she’s out, followed by, “When will she be back?” Not because we need anything—just because.
- “Where’s Mum?” we wonder if she’s even 30 minutes late.
- “What’s in the bag?” we demand the moment she walks through the door with groceries, because of course, it’s important.
Even when she’s home, she can barely take a moment to herself. She’s darting back and forth, always followed by one of us, for no reason other than our inexplicable need to be near her. I’d find myself popping out of my room, sticking my head into the kitchen or balcony to see what she was up to, only to retreat silently moments later.
I don’t know if she noticed this constant orbit, but I do know it didn’t seem to bother her. Her smile never wavered, a quiet acknowledgment that this was what she loved most.
This gravitational pull isn’t unique to my family—it feels deeply Arab, and yet, somehow universal. The kind of love that finds its expression in simple gestures, like our most repeated statement of the week: “This was so delicious, Mum.
يسلمو ايديكي و يعطيكي العافية.”
Our mothers are the sun. They are warmth, life, and home. Without them, everything feels a little colder, a little less whole.
This December, under one roof, we revolved around her as we always have and always will.
May God bless all mothers.
FrequencyForty 