Once upon a time, a girl became a wife.
Fast forward a few years, and the wife became a mum.
(I’m skipping a lot of the details for sake of time.)
That mum loved her little one very, very much. From the very first second of that little one’s existence, that mum started rearranging the rooms in her brain and heart so that there would be plenty of space for the little one to move around.
When the little one was born, she had already been in every room. As she grew, she started to fill up every corner of every room. She didn’t mean to do it. She just did. Rather, her mother put her there—a little bit of her on every shelf and every mantelpiece and inside every drawer and jewelry box inside of her.
Life on the outside, of course, was up and down. The older the little one got, the less she was there. She started being there less and less ever since she started going to this thing called “school” when she was only five. But it didn’t matter—her mother had her everywhere inside of her.
So even when the little one did something—voluntarily or involuntarily—that hurt the mother, the bruises healed quickly and the bridges were quickly mended. It is easy to forgive someone who you’ve let take up every room in your heart-house.
The mum would go out of her way to do things for the little one. Sometimes she would forgo getting or doing something so that the little one could have what she wanted. Some called this “sacrifice.” That’s not what the mum called it. She didn’t call it anything. Fact is, she didn’t notice she was doing it. If someone called what she was doing “sacrifice” to her face, she’d smile and say that she enjoyed it so much, she wouldn’t stop. When someone fills your heart-house to the corners, you want to do everything to make sure that someone feels happy and loved.
The miracle is that the mum doesn’t have just one person taking up so much space inside of her. She has several people. Her own mum, for instance. Her husband. Her siblings. It’s hard to delineate the differences between these different kinds of loves. Each one is beautiful and special in its own way. But the love she has for her little one, or ones, is something that only a mother can know. The way she loves her little one or ones is something that only a mother can do. And it’s something she enjoys. And it’s something she’s really, really good at.
I don’t speak from experience. But that’s what I’ve observed.