My darling children… Tomorrow, you’ll come to visit me for my birthday—a milestone, supposedly something to celebrate. You’ll arrive with flowers, a cake, polite smiles. And I’ll greet you with wrinkles, trembling hands, because each year, it gets harder… You’ll see how I’m aging. And all I ask is this—be patient. Try to understand what this stage of life feels like for me.
If your dad or I start retelling a story you’ve heard before—last year, last month, even an hour ago—don’t interrupt. Don’t roll your eyes or snap, *”Mum, you’ve told us this already.”* Just… listen. The way I listened when you were little, begging me to read the same bedtime story ten times until you fell asleep with the book clutched in your arms.
If I say I don’t want to shower, don’t shout or scold me. Remember how I’d coax you into the bath after school or playing outside, when you’d stomp your feet and whine about being tired. I held my patience then—rubbed your back, whispered *”One more minute,”* ran the water, sang to you.
If I can’t work your phone or telly, don’t sigh in frustration. I wasn’t born with gadgets in my hands. I learned everything from scratch—just like I taught you to hold a spoon, button your coat, tie your laces. Back then, I guided you gently. Do the same for me now. No irritation. No jokes at my expense.
You’ll notice me stumbling over words, losing my train of thought. Yes, I’m getting older. Yes, I’m tired. But don’t point it out. Don’t say, *”You’ve forgotten again?”* I know. And it frightens me. Just give me a moment. Stay close.
I don’t want to be a burden. I just want to be the same person who held your hand for your first steps. Now that my legs falter, offer me yours. Walk slowly beside me. I once matched my pace to your tiny strides.
I don’t ask for much—no grand parties, fancy gifts, or perfect words. Just warmth. A bit of quiet togetherness. So please—don’t fear my aging. Accept it. Like I accepted your scraped knees, bedtime fears, stubborn moods.
Don’t wait until I’m gone to remember how my hands felt when they held yours. Hug me now. Say *”I love you”*—now, while I can still hear it, while I can still feel it.
And tomorrow, when you come—don’t just be polite. Be *real*. I can tell when you’re counting minutes till you leave, when silence means frustration, not love. I don’t need much. Just your honest voice saying *”Mum.”*
I’m scribbling this with shaking hands and a heart so full. One last thing—I love you. Always. Till my very last breath.
Your mum.
