On Motherhood & The Importance of Looking Around
I'm tucked into a corner inside Barnes & Noble café near a mom and her two daughters, close enough to feel the weight of a family in great distress.
The girls are young — 16, 18, maybe 20. It's hard to tell. The younger sister wears a look of solemn concern, while her older sister sits hunched over, her shoulders curled inward, and her body trembling with the unmistakable rhythm of someone crying. She's very upset. Her pain is raw and real and heavy. A knot tightens in my stomach, the sting of trespass, like I've stumbled into something I'm not meant to see. I briefly consider asking if they need help, but think better of it. The moment feels too personal, almost sacred, unfolding in a space meant for browsing, not breaking.
I do nothing. I just watch.
The older sister whispers to her younger sibling — what if this never stops? — a terrifying prospect that freezes both girls in place. The realization unsettles them, cracking their precarious idealism — one door closing as another opens. The look on their mom's face, however, suggests something altogether different. Despite absorbing the pain of her daughter's torment, her wide open eyes, pursed lips, and the gentle, curious tilt of her head betray the loving calm of a parent who knows her daughter will be just fine. Maybe not today. But soon. Real soon.
Observing their deep ties and sweet, easy comfort with one another feels like a great privilege — it's breathtaking — as is seeing their starkly different, age-appropriate perspectives: the girl's ruptured reality soothed back to calm by their mom's quiet, knowing presence, a rock to lean on, a soft shoulder to safely nestle into.
I smile.
I watch as the mom takes both of her daughter's hands in her own, lifts them to her face and presses a soft, cottony kiss into each. After gently lowering this hand sandwich back onto the cool linoleum table, she begins to massage the back of her daughter's hand. Her outstretched forefinger gliding back and forth, back and forth, slowly, with great care and an achingly tender gaze. Ahhh. The tension in the young girl's shoulders slowly melts away, dissolving like a sugar cube in warm tea. It is a sight to behold. Beauty personified.
As the three women sit in silence I watch spellbound as their eyes communicate a torrent too raw for words. The young girl's gaze, wide and drowning, says: "Mom, I'm dying. Help me. Please, make it stop." The look in her mom's eyes, steady and soothing, redolent and reassuring: "I'm here. I see you. I'll always be right here."
And in this moment, it feels true: the girl is dying. Who she was last week, yesterday, even this morning is not who she is right now, nor who she's likely to ever be again. The weight of the moment hangs heavy, delicately balanced between the daughter's desperate plea and her mom's steady strength.
And yet, beneath the sorrow, something achingly beautiful hums — because I know, and her mom knows, that the girl isn't dying — she won't die. She will survive this. And weeks from now, whatever's shattered her today will be a mere speck in her rearview.
When their silence breaks, I can't quite make out what the girl says to her mom, but I see her mom's response. With a soft, knowing smile, she tightens her grip on her daughter's hands and mouths to her, "You look beautiful today." The effect is immediate and palpable.
At the same, the younger sister traces steady, looping circles on her older sister's back in a patient, familiar rhythm. Every so often, she flicks her sister's ear — a playful, teasing gesture only a sibling could ever hope to get away with, a silent tether to something safe and instantly recognizable.
And the girl, though broken, leans into it all, finding quiet refuge in her mother's words, her sister's touch, and the unshakable gravity of their love. I'm so entranced by the grace and sheer beauty of the moment, I feel like I might break in two.
As I shake off my near-hypnotic state and widen my focus to the rest of the café, a heaviness settles over me. Why does no one else seem to notice the sad girl, her tender-hearted younger sister, and their strong, fiercely loving mom?
Surely I understand that people get lost inside their own heads. I know I do. All the time. But is everyone here really so absorbed in their phones, lattes, and chocolate chip cookies that they've missed this raw, aching moment of grief and love unfolding right in front of them? Do they truly not see it? Or do they simply not care?
As my empathy hardens into frustration at the public's stunning obliviousness — or, worse, its blind indifference — I notice a young boy a few tables away. His father has been on the phone this entire time, detached, unaware. But the boy — he sees. He’s watching the two girls and their mom with a quiet, restless unease, his gaze flicking back and forth, his small hands fidgeting in his lap.
Just then, our eyes meet. He sees me seeing him seeing them. He quickly looks away — flushed, embarrassed, like kids often are when they unexpectedly lock eyes with a stranger. I want to tell him it’s okay to look. It’s okay to care. It’s okay to wonder about the girl with sorrow spilling from her eyes.
But more than anything, I want to tell him that she’ll be okay. That she’s not alone. And from everything I’ve witnessed here today, she likely never will be.
Of course, I don’t say anything to the boy. I don’t say anything to anyone.
I just keep watching
In a world where beauty and love can be hard to locate, you often find them in the most unexpected places, at the most improbable times. That’s why it’s important to pay attention. To look closer. To keep watch. Because if you do, you’ll see it. Again and again.