Mother's Day without mothers: My first teacher
I was not even five when I ran away from home for the first time — not out of defiance, but because I wanted to buy a book. Most mothers would have been furious. But not her. When she found me, she did not scold me; she bought me the book. Then, even though I was not yet five, she enrolled me in school and walked me there every day. She had seen my hunger for learning and chose to nourish it rather than suppress it. That small act of understanding would define the way she mothered me: with encouragement, vision and deep respect for who I was becoming.
Throughout my life, she took care of everything so I could focus on my studies. She never asked for anything in return. Her love was not performative — it was quiet and fierce. Her core belief was in independence. 'Don't rely on anyone,' she would say. 'Save your money. Stand on your own feet.' She taught me to be self-sufficient not because she did not want to help, but because she wanted me to be free.
And I did become free — and, in turn, helped her find freedom too, by giving her the home she had always wanted. I built a life grounded in the principles she taught me. For a while, I thought the best way to honour her was to prove that I no longer needed her. I began refusing help, keeping my distance emotionally — not out of coldness, but out of pride.
And yet, in her final days, I was given a rare gift: the chance to say everything I needed to.
At the hospital, I told her that I loved her, that I would make her proud and that she did not need to worry about me. I whispered to her the same words Maya Angelou whispered to her own mother on her deathbed — that it was okay to go. I knew she would never want to be tied to a feeding tube or to dependence. Love, after all, frees. And she had spent her whole life teaching me that. I have no regrets about those last moments. She heard me. She knew.
One moment that perfectly captures her spirit happened in an airport. She had tagged along with me, as she often did and overheard me bargaining with a British Airways employee to waive the fee for my overweight baggage. When we walked away, she pulled me aside and said, 'Either pay or lighten your bags. But don't beg.' That was who she was: proud, clear and composed.
Even in the face of inconvenience, she chose dignity.
This Mother's Day, I will not be buying her flowers or hearing her scold me — as she often did — for paying too much for them. But I will remember her. I will honour her by continuing to live the way she taught me: with integrity, independence and grace. She is no longer here in body, but her lessons and feistiness are alive in me.
And when the ache of missing her feels too sharp, I will return to that hospital room, to those final whispered words, to the knowledge that love — real love — does not chain you. It liberates.
She gave me the freedom to live. And in letting her go, I gave her the freedom to rest.
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