Enough
There are times when she can spend hours dwelling on what she could have better. She loves every single one of her children, loves how unique each of them are. But there are times she wonders if perhaps she could have spent more time with them, quality time, not time dedicated to familial duties and obligations. She knows that the time they spend out in the world as independent adults isnāt because they are avoiding home, and yet...two of her eldest never seem to make it to the house more than once per year if she is lucky.Ā
Her first seems to spend an almost inordinate time close to home, but never for a casual visit. Her son is practically the poster child for fulfilling familial duty, which is probably why she canāt bring herself to criticize too harshly when he becomes too strident in expressing his traditionalist views to his...well, less-than-traditional younger siblings, even though it breaks her heart just as much as not seeing her other children.Ā
At times like these, she finds herself burying herself into her husbandās vast chest, lulling herself with the physical contact. She knows her dear, sweet husband must have similar worries, having found him more than once pouring over old mementos with misty, clouded eyes, and no smile that might hint at tears of nostalgia rather than regret. And then she must hold and reassure him as he does for her.Ā
She can remind herself that having raised all of them to adulthood safe and healthy, a task completed thirteen times over, she as at least, done her duty as a mother for the most part. If only it ever felt like enough.











