After A Month Of — Showering My Mother With Love ...

She stopped knitting. Thought for a long time. “Surrendering, I guess. Which I’ve never been good at.”

That was her shower of love. Small. Quiet. Decades late. And absolutely perfect. If you are in the middle of your own month—your own campaign of relentless, seemingly unreturned affection—let me save you some despair. After a month of showering my mother with love ...

She nodded. Then: “Your grandmother used to fix things around the house. No one ever thanked her either.” She stopped knitting

She’s not rejecting you. She’s protecting a younger version of herself who learned long ago that needing love was dangerous. Which I’ve never been good at

So bring the cinnamon roll. Fix the hinge. Call for no reason. Sit in the silence. And when she deflects, when she jokes, when she crosses her arms and asks why you’re trying so hard—smile.

Day seven: I offered to clean out her gutters. She stood in the driveway with her arms crossed, watching me like an auditor. “You’re going to fall off that ladder. Then who’s going to take care of you?” Not: thank you . Not: I love you too . A question about my eventual failure.