By Shambhawi Jha

Some stories about motherhood come from mothers. Others come from the children who grew up without one.

In this deeply personal letter, Raw Mothering contributor Shambhawi Jha reflects on grief, longing, and the complicated emotions that follow after losing a mother at a young age.

Dear Mummy,

Today, after 13 years since you died, I finally gathered the courage to write a letter to you.

I was five years old when you left, but even then I was wise enough to know that you had died. At the time, when Papa came to me, he said you had gone somewhere for treatment. But I clearly remember the day when Papa carried me in his lap—I saw your body lying in the ambulance. Papa tried to control his tears. I knew he was lying to me; I knew he was hiding his tears so I wouldn’t cry. I wanted to tell him that I knew you were gone, but I couldn’t.

I still remember the countless nights when Papa just sat with me and stared silently at the stars.

After you died, Grandma came to take care of me, but she wasn’t literate enough to help me with my studies, and Papa didn’t have the time. Suddenly, from being the top student in class, I became the worst. Teachers sympathized with me, but whenever I came home with a bad report card, Papa would beat me for not scoring well enough in my exams. I suffered in silence. I wanted help with my schoolwork but spent hours struggling with it alone. No one was there to guide me.

Sometimes I wonder—did I ever miss you?

The answer is no.

Because I didn’t know what motherhood felt like. You were not there.

But I did miss you once.

It was when relatives tried to find a new bride for Papa. I was scared. I thought a new mother wouldn’t love me. I thought Papa would forget me.

That was the first time I truly wanted you back.

Later, Papa also fell ill. He grew weak—inside and out. Slowly, he stopped getting out of bed. I was worried. It was painful watching him suffer.

I wanted him to recover from his sickness, but his condition became worse.

Every time I saw him in pain, a part of me died.

Did I cry?

No.

Because I knew he couldn’t see me crying.

Then he died.

That’s when it hit me.

I was an orphan.

Did I cry then?

Yes.

But just once.

Then I stopped. I saw Grandma crying after losing her son. I couldn’t cry anymore.

When I moved to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, life became even tougher. I was twelve years old, full of questions that nobody could answer.

I saw other mothers lovingly caring for their children, and for the first time, I cried for you, Mummy.

I saw mothers feeding their children with their hands—I craved that. In school, most kids had perfect projects that their mothers had helped them with. I made mine alone. They were usually the worst in class, and kids laughed at me.

I craved your love. Your company.

I didn’t understand why.

Sometimes I even hated you for not being there.

When I got my first period, you weren’t there to explain it. When I fought with friends, you weren’t there to take my side. When I took my board exams, you didn’t stay up with me.

When I fell in love for the first time, I wanted to tell you. When he broke my heart, I wanted your hug.

When I went to college, I had no one to cry to.

Instead, I cried for you.

Every time I saw my friends talking to their mothers and sharing even the smallest details of their day, I missed you.

At my lowest—when I was confused about my career—I cried myself to sleep, hoping you would somehow come back.

But you never did.

People call me strong for surviving without a mother.

But I don’t consider myself strong.

You gave me no choice.

Those who call me brave have never seen the nights I cried, wishing I could lie in your lap with your hand resting on my head.

So many times, I created illusions that you and Papa were still alive. I built a fake world where I wasn’t alone—but the illusion always broke.

As a child, I believed maybe you were still alive somewhere. That all of this suffering was just a dream. That one day I would wake up in your lap.

But growing up means facing reality.

And the truth is—you are never coming back.

Still, I want to talk to you.

I want to tell you how I suffered without you. How I might have been a different person if you had been there.

Even though I sometimes hated you for leaving, I still love you.

I know that love may be selfish—because I want you for myself.

But wasn’t it your job to protect me from this cruel world?

Instead, you left me to suffer alone as a child.

I lost my childhood.

There was no umbrella to protect me from the scorching sun. I walked alone.

I never chose to be your child—but you chose to bring me into this world.

It was your responsibility to care for me.

And yet, you left me alone.

Sometimes I wonder…

Will I ever be able to forgive you?

For taking motherhood away from me.

Because being loved by a mother is every child’s right.

About the Author

Shambhawi Jha is a third-year Chemistry student at St. Stephen’s College, Delhi. She writes poetry and reflective prose exploring grief, memory, and the quieter complexities of human emotions. Her work often carries a philosophical tone, reflecting on feelings and experiences that are often difficult to speak aloud.