Missing the womb
There are things that I associated with having a mother that have nothing to do with my own. I’ve been blessed with an extended family. I was skeptical, if not downright adamant, about accepting them. This process is whole chapter of my story, but the happy conclusion of it – the final acceptance, the warm embrace we all linked in – has endured as a truth since then (in one way or another).
… so it is in moments like these – hardships, uncertainties, exhaustion, loneliness – that I miss the little things my stepmother did for me to make me feel at home. The homemade coffe frappées, the apple-cinnamon smell pervading the house, her voice knitting a web of stories around you, creating a universe out of the ordinary things that happened to her during daily life. It isn’t even about the material comforts, it’s more about what feels like HOME. That was the last Home I knew, before launching into yet another chapter of my life (in which I’ve built a home of my very own). It was the last safe space that didn’t depend on me holding my own. It was the last safe space I could come home to and rest my head and my worries without feeling selfish for letting go.
This does not mean I’m not happy in my adult home. But sometimes you need a mother … sometimes you need a stepmother. Sometimes you need a smile, the smell of incense, and the certainty that it would be ok, regardless of what you did. I miss my Dad, and I definitely miss his wife, even if she wouldn’t guess as much.
I miss Home.
