There’s a quiet blessing in the closeness of grown children—
Not the kind measured in miles,
But in the gentle sharing of stories,
The casual texts, the laughter over dinner,
And the way they still let me peek into their worlds.
I am grateful for every moment they choose to share—
For the late-night phone calls,
The photos of new adventures,
And the simple, “Love you, Mom,”
That lands soft as a sigh at the end of a busy day.
Yet, even as I watch them stride into their own lives—
Capable, clever, carving out their dreams—
A mother’s worry lingers,
A silent oversight,
Hovering over their struggles and challenges,
Wishing, sometimes, to shoulder the weight
Or to smooth the path ahead,
Even when I know they must walk it themselves.
There are days when the house feels too still,
The echo of their laughter fading between visits,
And I am left with a quiet emptiness—
A hollow shaped by memories
Of rebellion and mismatched socks,
Of tea parties with teddy bears,
And race tracks built from matchbox cars
Winding through the living room.
I remember the moments of exasperation—
The slammed doors, the stubborn glares—
But more often, I recall
The giggles over spilled tea,
The sticky hands clutching mine,
The bedtime stories and whispered secrets
Shared in the hush of night.
There are regrets, of course—
Words I wish I’d swallowed,
Hugs I wish I’d held a little longer,
But they are outnumbered
By the moments that brought great joy:
The pride in their first steps,
The warmth of their sleepy heads on my shoulder,
The unexpected “thank yous”
That melted the hardest days.
Now, as I look back—
My life feels cherished, blessed, fulfilled.
I see the tapestry woven from
Small kindnesses,
Shared laughter,
And the simple, enduring love
That grows, even when we are apart.
My heart is full—
Grateful for every visit, call, and memory,
And for the privilege of being
A mother, always.
Reba Nietert 