I apologized—truly, without excuses. I told her I was scared, that I never meant to insult her work or her worth. She reached out, hesitated, and then held my hand.
Her palms were rough, worn from years of labor, but they were warm, familiar, and loving. That day, I learned that love doesn’t always shout; sometimes it leaves quietly to avoid causing harm. I learned that words spoken in fear can scar deeper than we realize.
And as my mother finally held her grandchild weeks later, gently and proudly, I realized something profound: her hands were never dirty. They were the hands that built my life, cleaned my world, and still reached for me even after I pushed them away.
