In a house where walls have memorized screams,
where anger echoes like the ticking of a clock,
you stood, mother —
not with clenched fists,
but with a heart that refused to shatter.
He —
quick to anger,
sharp with threats,
cloaked in false piety,
stingy with hands, generous with curses.
But you?
Your silence wasn't weakness,
your bowed head wasn't defeated.
That was patience —
the kind only the strongest souls are chosen to carry.
Year after year, you swallowed fire,
never once breathing it back into the world.
The children stayed full,
even as your soul starved for understanding.
You folded your pain into your prayers,
your hopes stitched into every whisper to the skies.
There was no revenge in your voice,
only a quiet wish for gentler tomorrows.
Mother,
you are not just a woman —
you are a shield,
a light,
a heaven built from the ruins of heartbreak.
And today,
I need you to know —
your patience was love in its purest,
loudest
form…
even when no one else heard it.
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