When No One Needs Me

It doesn’t happen often.

But now and then, the house falls quiet.
No requests.
No reaching hands.
No gestures or AAC, no glance asking for more juice, another song, one more push on the swing.
Just quiet. Just space.

Just me.
And the soft question of what to do with the time I didn’t expect to have.

When no one needs me, I make tea without rushing.
I choose a mug like a small ceremony.
I might read a page or two.
I might fold laundry more slowly than necessary.
I might sit down and simply let the room hold me.

Sometimes, it feels like exhale.
Other times, it feels like ache.

I’ve spent so long responding. So long anticipating, softening, serving, that stillness can feel unfamiliar. Like a room I once loved but haven’t visited in a while. My own name spoken quietly in my own mind.

There is a strange tenderness in being unneeded.
A reminder that I am more than what I provide.
That I am allowed to exist, even when I am not being leaned on.

It’s easy to define myself by what I give.
The meals made. The hands held. The crumbs swept.
The routines remembered. The sensory joys protected.
The swing pushed, the sandbox filled, the favorite cup found.

But when no one needs me, I remember:
There is a woman here.
A soul with her own soft gravity.
One who still hums songs under her breath, even when no one is listening.

She notices how the rain sounds at 3 p.m.
She lights a candle in the afternoon just because.
She writes things no one may read.
She keeps beauty alive in the quiet corners.

When no one needs me, I return to her.

Not because I stopped being a mother,
but because I was always more than that title.

And in the silence, she has something to say.

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