Is it possible to love halfway, or who gets our mothers?

We're so used to dividing our lives into compartments: work, home, husband, children, friends, our own ambitions, and the endless pursuit of success. We call our parents on the fly, between meetings, promise to stop by on the weekend—and then drown in the whirlwind of tasks again. But have you ever wondered what it's like to wait for a call from your own child, like manna from heaven?

Tell me, why do we so generously give our time to strangers, social media, and random passersby, while having no energy left for those closest to us? Is it possible to love halfway?

Think of her hands. Have you noticed how they've aged? Those same hands that carried us, healed our scraped knees, wiped away tears, and smelled of warm bread. Did those hands deserve to tremble with loneliness in an empty apartment? Why do we only remember our mothers when a storm hits our own lives, or, God forbid, when it's too late?


Do we have the right to call ourselves loving children if our mothers live out their days in the silence of television and endless anticipation? What will we say to ourselves on the day we look into their eyes and realize that time has irrevocably passed, and we never got to tell them the most important thing? Is a phone call once a week really the only gratitude we can muster?

Look at your mother today. While she's alive, while her heart beats for you. Do you really want to wake up one day with a heavy burden on your soul, realizing that other people's concerns were more important than the person closest to you?

With pain and endless tenderness,

Dragitsa