The Small Mother

“That Night, I Became a Mother” She came in and curled up to sleep, not a care, not a sound, while her brother cried soft, lost sobs in the hollow quiet of the night. I reached out...just a hand on his head, and somehow, that was enough. But each time I pulled away, the silence shattered into tears again. So I stayed. A stranger to his world, but for that night, his comfort. I boiled milk like a ritual, tested warmth on my wrist, unscrewed the cap just enough, worried if he'd choke, or cry, or burn. And slowly, some tenderness bloomed in me. Not because he was mine, but because I became something else. At two in the morning, as I rocked him gently in a world of half-sleep and full care, a quiet wish whispered in my chest, I want to be a mother. But not because of him. Because of her. That young girl...no older than fifteen, waking without complaint, holding him like he was everything. So calm. So ready. So full of love. And I wondered, was I ever like that? Was I ever this much trouble? I thought of my mother, her hands, her nights, her love so taken for granted. And I felt it, for the first time, so heavy and so full, how much she must’ve given. How much I owe her. How much I love her.