Even at 50, I'd Still Want My Mum

Time is cruel in the way it moves—always forward, never back. It carries us away from the moments we wish to linger in, from the hands we once held so tightly, from the voices that once called us home. And yet, even as the years pass, as wrinkles form and hair greys, I know that one thing will always remain the same: I will still want my mum.

I will want her in the way a child does, running to her after scraping a knee. I will want her in the way an adult does, after a long, exhausting day that leaves me questioning everything. I will want her in the way the soul longs for what is safe, for what is known, for what has always been.

Even at 50, I will still need her to tell me I’m doing okay, to remind me that I am enough. Because the world has a way of making you doubt yourself, of making you feel small and unworthy. But a mother—oh, a mother is the one person who sees you whole, even when you feel like nothing.

I will still want her voice, the sound of it like a soft melody that lingers in the air long after the song has ended. I will want her laugh, the way it fills a room, the way it makes me feel like I am ten years old again, safe in the warmth of her joy.

Even at 50, I will still want her hands. Hands that braided my hair, that wiped my tears, that held my own when I was too scared to stand on my own. Hands that cooked meals I can never quite replicate, hands that carried the weight of love without ever growing tired.

I will still want her stories, the ones she tells over and over again, the ones I pretend to roll my eyes at but secretly cherish. Stories of her youth, of love, of loss, of the life she lived before I knew her as my mother. Because in her stories, I find pieces of myself.

Even at 50, I will still want her advice, even if I don't always take it. I will want her wisdom, the kind that comes not from books but from living, from surviving, from knowing what it means to give more than you have and still find a way to give more.

I will still want her presence, even if just in spirit, even if just in the way I catch myself saying things the way she does, moving through life with the same quiet strength she taught me. Because she is in me, in every choice I make, in every lesson she ever whispered into my bones.

Even at 50, I will still want to call her when something good happens, to hear the pride in her voice, to know that she is proud of me. And when something bad happens, I will still want to bury my head in her shoulder, even if just for a moment, even if just to pretend that everything will be okay.

I will still want her to remind me to eat, to rest, to take care of myself in ways I often forget. Because no matter how old we get, we are always someone's child, always in need of the one person who loved us before we even took our first breath.

Even at 50, I will still want to make her proud, to live in a way that honors her sacrifices, her love, her unwavering belief in me. Because she gave me everything—her time, her patience, her dreams—and I carry that gift with me every single day.

I will still want her warmth, the way she makes any space feel like home, the way her presence is a kind of comfort that no one else in this world can replicate.

Even at 50, I will still want her reassurance, the quiet knowing that no matter how lost I feel, I can always find my way back to her. Because mothers are our first homes, and no matter how far we wander, a part of us always stays there.

I will still want her prayers, the whispered ones in the middle of the night, the ones she says when she thinks no one is listening. Because there is something about a mother’s prayer that carries weight, that reaches places even the strongest of hands cannot.

Even at 50, I will still want to sit beside her and say nothing at all, just feeling the peace of her presence. Because sometimes love is not in words, but in the silence that exists between two hearts that understand each other completely.

I will still want her reminders—of where I come from, of who I am, of the strength I forget I have. Because she has always been my mirror, reflecting back to me the best parts of myself when I can’t see them on my own.

Even at 50, I will still want to hold her hand, to feel the callouses, the stories etched into her skin, the years of loving and giving and being more than the world ever gave back to her.

And if one day she is no longer here, if time takes her from me before I am ready, I know I will still want her. I will still look for her in the stars, in the wind, in the way the leaves rustle like whispers of an old lullaby.

Because even at 50, even at 80, even when my own hair has turned gray and my own hands have grown weak—I will still be her child. I will still need her love. I will still want my mum.

Neta