A letter from Apr 11, 2026

On your 42nd birthday, I want to document what you've given me that I don't say 'thank you' enough for. When you and Dad bought me that new bike, it wasn't just a gift. It was a visible marker of the care you put into things I want even when you're stretched thin. You woke up that morning like every other, made breakfast, and kept the house moving. And still found a way to say yes to that. That bike meant you were paying attention to what I needed. That you prioritised it despite having no time. Every morning, you're the one who wakes me. Not Dad, you. You come to my room knowing I won't get up on my own, knowing I'm still asleep when the day needs to start. You do this not once, but repeatedly. It's a form of care that doesn't get named because it's small and daily and invisible. But it's the foundation. You're the structure that keeps me moving. You make food for all of us. Not as a task completed as a constant. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Feeding a family is relentless work. It's creative problem-solving on limited resources. It's knowing what everyone needs before they ask. And you do this while managing everything else in the house that somehow defaults to you. The cleaning, the organising, and the remembering of what needs to happen next. You carry the mental load of the household. You're the one who knows what's running out, what needs fixing, what's been forgotten. Most of it goes unseen. You're kind, but not soft. You respect people, including me, even when they haven't earned it yet. You're strictly kind, which means you don't lower your standards to make people comfortable, but you never withhold your care while holding those standards. That's rare. You're observant in a way that comes from being present and nostalgic; you notice what matters in small moments. The details other people miss. You see me, actually see me, and choose kindness anyway. Being motherly, you've shown, isn't about being indulgent. It's about being reliable. Strict and kind at the same time. It's about waking someone up even when they don't want to be woken. It's about making food when you're exhausted. It's about noticing and remembering and showing up. I don't pull my weight yet. I know this. You know this. And you haven't stopped. That's what I need to understand about you; you don't wait for people to deserve care. You give it while you're waiting for them to grow into it. I see this now. Not perfectly, but I'm beginning to see it. Happy birthday, Ammi. 42 looks like someone who's been carrying weight for a long time and never put it down.