To her, it wasn’t disgusting.
It wasn’t heroic.
It was just necessary.
As a kid, I never questioned it. I assumed every mother did the same thing behind closed doors. That this was just how life worked. I had no idea how different the world would become—or how rare that kind of quiet endurance really was.
Only now do I understand what I was watching.
Not filth.
Not struggle.
But love expressed in the least glamorous way possible.
She never announced her sacrifices. She never asked for praise. She just did what needed to be done, again and again, in the smallest, messiest moments where no one was watching.
And that’s the part that stays with me.
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