She didn’t use big words.
Or grand gestures.
But somehow, I always knew.

She loved me in the way she folded towels, while they were still warm.
In the way she carried all the bags so I wouldn’t have to.
In the way she stayed beside me, long after I’d fallen asleep, just to make sure I was okay.

Some women sing lullabies.
Mine taught me love through presence.
Through hands that were always busy, but never too full for me.
Through meals kept warm.
Through rooms that always smelled like home.

Sometimes I wear her jewellery,
And when I do, I feel steadier, as if her strength lives inside it.

Now, I love like she did.
Not to prove anything, but to be quietly powerful.
Rooted in care, not applause.
In presence, not performance.

In a door left open.
In small pauses.
In meals kept warm.
In a ribbon tied slowly, not for show, but as an act of love.

Because the way she loved me…
It was never loud.
But it never left.