Hug I Will Never Get

I carried the weight of the world in my hands, Three small hearts beating through my own, Raised on weary limbs and sleepless nights, In silence, I labored — always alone. I gave them my body, my breath, my days, Stitched their childhoods with trembling thread, Fed them with hours I didn’t have, Wrapped them in warmth when the world felt dead. I bent like the willow in winter wind, Never breaking, though I often came close. They grew — and with them, my hope would rise, That one day, they’d know what hurt me most. But now they say I gave them nothing. Not a gift, not love, not even a cake. They don’t see the lights I turned off, So they could eat for heaven’s sake. They forget the shoes I patched with care, The birthdays I made from scraps and thread. But I remember every silent tear, And every lullaby I softly said. What I crave now is not their praise, Nor medals, nor thank-you’s late and cold. I just want one hug that tells me I mattered, That my love was real — not bought or sold. I long for arms that pull me in, With no judgment, no shame, no demand. To feel — just once — like a mother held, By the children I raised with my own hands. To be seen not as a shadow or wound, Not a figure from some bitter tale. But as the woman who never stopped loving, Even when her heart would fail. I won’t get that hug. I know that now. It’s a dream stitched from grief and fire. But still I mother, and still I ache — For that one moment of pure desire… To be enough. To be loved back. To be understood. To belong. mjm 5/25