Remembering Mother

Excerpt from a journal — May 2025

The kitchen is full of warmth and sunlight, light sneaking through the window, glowing even brighter through the curtains. A fire crackles under the stove. On top, a single potato boils in a little toy pot—this is for me. We’re preparing dinner together. We’re both the hostesses, I’m wearing an apron that my mother sewed.

She has green eyes and light curls falling to her shoulders. This moment is overflowing with love. I’m excited. I’m happy. This is one of my first memories of my mother—I'm about two and a half years old. It was before my parents divorced.

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I’m sitting at the desk in my room; on the wall, there’s a picture of just me and my mom. I feel such immense longing, tears keep flowing, and it seems there will be no end to it. My mind is a mess of feelings and thoughts. Does she not love me anymore? What did I do wrong?

I was eight when the family decided I should live with my grandmother. They decided—but what about me? I felt so alone. She never told me she missed me. And I cried, and cried.

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Later, I made a choice. I decided not to be like my mother. I would manage on my own. I didn’t need a mother. Her decisions, her ways—they didn’t fit into my worldview. It was hard for me to accept her. I was very defensive.

That decision was strong. So strong, it took years before I could truly see again. To see that back then, my mother gave all she had, with the knowledge and experiences she had at the time. She simply didn’t know another way.

Now, being a mother myself and in light of the recapitulation I've made, I see that the  woman I called my mother gave me everything she had to give. Her best.

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The last years with my mother, when I consciously allowed her into my life and allowed myself to feel like a daughter, our relationship changed. It became one of mutual respect; we were equals. Two grown women, and both of us were mothers. She had time, because she could no longer hurry anywhere or go off to do her own things—she was bedridden. It was just her and me. Mother and daughter. She spoke and I listened. I asked and she shared.

Now we had time. We shared everything that had remained unshared for decades. We talked about our interests and experiences, shared our joys and failures. We had time to truly listen to each other, to truly understand.

She knitted and knitted, knitted a lot. Socks and mittens—and they are the warmest, filled with warm love.

Today I feel gratitude—not only for her love, but also for the fact that I was finally able to see and listen.

— Kristiina