When we were children, my mother had a beautiful habit: when she was cooking in the kitchen, she would secretly slice an orange for herself and eat it. Sometimes my sister and I would hold his wrist and say: Ha! Look! He is eating oranges alone again. And we laughed. My mother was also laughing. His laugh was genuine, but there was a sense of guilt with it. Like children who get caught in the middle of their hustle, he had no choice but to laugh.
My mother was (and is) a housewife. She was the woman of the family. She was his husband’s wife. It was almost always in the kitchen. When he came to us, he had a bowl of fruit in his hand. Even occasionally, she visited us for motherly control of her children. He did not come empty-handed: he had a halved head of lettuce in his hands. A piece for me, a piece for my sister.
When my father came home from work, he would run to the door. She would wipe her hands, which must have been wet from washing the dishes, with a handkerchief and show her beautiful smiles to her tired husband. In her spare time, she used to knit shawls, hats and sweaters for us, and my sister and I would sit next to her like two kittens and play with yarn balls.
My mother liked the sunlight spread in the house. He always sits where there is sunshine. Her brown hair and toes sticking out of her skirt glistened in the sun, and her hands shook the knitting needles fast and fast with a steady rhythm.
My mother was (and is) a perfect example of a mother. My mother was not a woman, not a girl, not a friend. She fits in only one word: mother.
I remember I was in Tehran recently when his father died. I reached myself soon. He had gone to my grandmother. When I entered my grandfather’s house, he hugged me tightly and started crying. I only cried for one moment during my grandfather’s ceremony. Not because of grandfather. Because of my mother, for the first time after all these years, her father’s death had taken her out of the role of a mother, and she had taken shelter in her son’s arms and was crying. And I had not given anything to my mother except this short hug. Something for himself.
My mother never wanted anything for herself. He did not buy clothes until he had to. He was not a party goer and playmate. Even the gifts he received under different titles were all household items. In all these years, the only moments that belonged to him were those times when he secretly cut oranges for himself in the kitchen. My mother’s share of her whole life were these oranges cut into quarters with a nice fragrance. . .
@zaneh_emroozi
This post is written by Sara_b_h