My mother was a dedicated school teacher, and we rarely saw her during the day. She would leave early in the morning, carrying her books and lunch in a cloth bag, and return only after the sun had begun to set. Even though we missed her, we knew she was doing something important—teaching and shaping young minds, just like ours. After dinner, no matter how tired she was, she would never forget her duty at home. With a gentle but firm voice, she would call us to sit down and open our books. We obeyed like good children, not out of fear, but out of love and respect.
It was on winter nights that our bond with her felt strongest. Wrapped in warm blankets, we would gather on the bed, our books closed for the day. The room would be filled with the soft hum of the heater or the quiet crackle of firewood. That was our favorite time—when our mother, her eyes filled with warmth, would become a storyteller. She didn’t just tell stories; she transported us. She spoke of magical lands, strange customs from faraway countries, great adventures, and fairy-tale kingdoms with talking animals and hidden treasures. Sometimes she read from beautifully illustrated books, and other times, the stories came straight from her memory, flowing effortlessly like a gentle stream.
As her voice drifted through the dimly lit room, my imagination would soar. I could see snowy mountains, flying carpets, enchanted forests, and oceans full of mystery. The ordinary walls of our home faded away, replaced by scenes of wonder and fantasy. My eyes would slowly begin to close, but my mind stayed alive in those stories. I would fall asleep with a smile on my face, dreaming of the magical worlds my mother had gifted me with her words. Those nights were not just about stories—they were about love, warmth, and the kind of childhood magic that stays with you forever.
Sometimes, I would wake up in the middle of the night, half-dreaming, still feeling like I was inside one of those tales. The shadow of the curtain might seem like a castle wall, or the ticking clock like the footsteps of a brave knight on a quest. In those quiet moments, I would realize how powerful my mother’s stories were—they had the ability to stretch beyond bedtime, beyond words, and live inside my imagination. They made me feel safe, curious, and inspired all at once.
Me: “Ma, how do you know so many stories? You never even look at a book!”
Mom (smiling): “Because I’ve been reading since I was younger than you. And some stories I remember from my own childhood. My grandmother used to tell me many of them.”
Me: “Were they this magical too?”
Mom (gently adjusting the blanket around me): “Even more magical. But you know, it’s not just about the stories. It’s about how you imagine them. That’s where the real magic lives.”
Me: “I wish you didn’t have to go to school every day. I miss you when you’re gone.”
Mom (pausing for a moment, then softly): “I miss you too. But I teach other children just like you, and I always carry your smile with me. You’re part of everything I do.”
Me (with curiosity): “When I grow up, can I be a teacher too? And tell stories like you?”
Mom (her eyes shining): “Of course, my child. You can be anything you want. Just keep your heart open, keep wondering, and never stop asking questions. Stories live in curious hearts.”
Me: “Will you still tell me stories when I’m big?”
Mom (gently touching my forehead): “Always. Even when you’re big, even when you live far away, my stories will live inside you. Whenever you close your eyes and remember my voice, they’ll come back to you.”
