Mirror Me | A Mother's Love

Cora

Cora lay still in bed, her body heavy against the worn mattress, the weight of the blankets barely enough to shield her from the coldness creeping up from within. Her gaze locked onto the mirror beside her bed, the reflection staring back at her like a stranger. She barely recognized herself anymore—the tired eyes, hollowed and rimmed with sleepless nights, the deep-set lines of worry that traced her face, remnants of battles fought in silence.

She tried to cry, but her eyes remained dry, the well of tears long since emptied. What was left was a dull ache, one that pulsed with each beat of her heart, a reminder that the fight wasn't over, even if she had nothing left to give.

Is this who I am?

Her thoughts floated, heavy with doubt, weighed down by years of feeling lost. She felt like she was drowning in the weight of her own mind, exhausted mentally, emotionally, physically, like she'd been poured out completely. Every morning, the day hadn't even started, and she was already losing patience—her voice sharp, her words louder than she wanted them to be, directed at the two little souls who looked up to her, innocent and full of life. Her children, the ones she'd vowed to be better for, were left tiptoeing around her moods.

The reflection in the mirror seemed so distant, like the person staring back was someone else entirely—someone trapped, someone forgotten. It wasn't the mother she'd imagined she'd be. She'd wanted to be a source of warmth and light for them, to be their safe place. Instead, she felt like a storm cloud hanging over them, her moods unpredictable, her patience fraying quicker than she could stop herself.

They don't deserve this, she thought, a pang of guilt twisting deeper into her chest. They deserved better than a mother who snapped at them over the smallest things, who could barely pull herself out of bed. They deserved laughter, joy, a mother who met them where they were instead of drowning in her own darkness.

The tears she thought were long gone finally came, soft and silent, rolling down her cheeks. I'm a horrible mother, she thought bitterly. I'm becoming the nightmare I swore I'd never be. The guilt gnawed at her, a hollow ache she couldn't soothe. Every impatient word, every moment she let her frustration spill over, replayed in her mind, each one a reminder of her failures.

Then, the door creaked open, and in a burst of light and laughter, her children bounded inside, their little bodies colliding with hers as they jumped onto the bed, greeting her with sticky hands and wide smiles.

"Mommy!" they squealed, wrapping their arms around her neck.

She forced the biggest smile she could manage, though her heart still felt heavy. How could they love her so freely, so purely, when she felt so undeserving? She kissed each of them on the forehead, her hands trembling slightly as she pulled them close.

"Good morning, my loves," she said softly, hugging them tight, as if holding onto them would keep her grounded. They were all she had left, her only tether to the world, her reason for getting up at all.

With every ounce of strength she could muster, she shifted in bed, planting her feet on the cold floor. Just breathe, she reminded herself. Slowly, she stood, her body feeling like it was moving through water, heavy and resistant. She had to keep going, keep moving, even if sometimes, trying her best just meant managing to get out of bed.

Her children were all that mattered now. They were the reason she kept living, the reason she pushed through the darkness that threatened to swallow her whole. For them, she would rise, she would smile, and she would fight, even when she had nothing left to give.

In the kitchen, Cora stood over a hot stove, one hand resting on her eight-month pregnant belly, mindlessly stirring the pot as laughter echoed from the other room. Her children's joy was a background melody, a fleeting reminder of warmth and light.

Suddenly, the laughter shifted, breaking into slaps and then screams. Cora snapped around, her eyes landing on her eldest hitting the younger sibling. Her patience snapped, frayed from days that felt endless, full of the same battles. She stomped over, her voice rising before she could catch herself.

"How many times do I have to tell you to stop hitting your little sister? Every single day, all day, I'm telling you to be nice to her!"

Her words hung in the air, harsh and heavy, and the moment they left her mouth, regret seeped in. She turned back toward the kitchen, her heart sinking under the weight of another outburst. Why couldn't she stay calm, respond gently? It was the same frustration, building and spilling over. She knew they didn't deserve the monster that had shown up.

With her heart racing, she tried to collect herself, taking a deep breath. As breakfast simmered on the stove, her youngest shuffled into the kitchen, tugging at her shirt and whining, "I want candy."

"No candy, baby. We need to eat breakfast first."

"Noooooo! I want candy!" the little one shrieked, her high-pitched cry piercing Cora's ears. Her patience thinned, stretched to breaking.

"I said no! Not before breakfast. Now get out of the kitchen. Go!"

The little one's face crumpled, and she collapsed onto the floor, wailing and flailing. Cora watched her, her own frustration mingling with guilt. She knew this wasn't how to respond, but the exhaustion ran deep. Every single day, it was just her and the kids, a never-ending loop of demands, meltdowns, and the constant drain of trying to keep it all together. She'd always wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, but it was so much harder than she had imagined. Her husband was gone most of the day, leaving for work at 3 a.m. and coming home past 6 p.m., often exhausted himself. She felt guilty even thinking about her resentment, knowing he was working himself to the bone. But it didn't change the loneliness or the feeling that she was shouldering this weight alone.

She was responsible for everything—raising the kids, running errands, maintaining the home, managing everyone's schedules, and stretching every dollar. Sure, he brought home the paycheck, but she handled the budgeting. That part was easy; what weighed her down was the feeling of doing it all alone.

It hurt to feel this resentment because she loved him deeply. He was a good man—devoted, loyal, and hardworking. They had started their lives together with dreams of a family, and she knew he wanted the best for them. But the reality of raising children had shifted their lives and relationship in ways they hadn't anticipated. The love for their children was immense, but navigating parenthood had been harder than either of them could have foreseen. They were still learning, both of them, trying to find their way through the constant demands of parenting.

She thought about their arguments, which often flared up when she was at her breaking point. He'd come home late, and she'd still make dinner for him, trying to serve a warm meal because he was so particular. Then she'd turn around to get the kids ready for bed, a routine he'd never helped with. Once, when she'd asked him for help, he simply replied, "I don't know how to do bedtime."

Her heart had sunk at his words. It was easier just to do it herself, even though it hurt to feel like she was alone in this part of their lives.

Memories surfaced of her first pregnancy, when she'd prepared on her own. She'd sent him videos and articles to help him understand labor and parenting, hoping he'd join her in learning. During labor, she'd been in immense pain, too exhausted to advocate for herself. He'd come to her side, held her hand, and admitted, "I don't know what to do to help you."

Well, you would if you'd watched the videos I sent you, she thought bitterly, but she managed to force a smile, masking her disappointment. "It's okay," she whispered, hiding the sting of loneliness. "I know you've been busy with work." He'd nodded, returned to the couch, and tried to sleep while she labored alone, each contraction magnifying the isolation she felt.

In the months that followed, once they were home, she was the one up every two hours, feeding and changing the baby. He never got up—not once. She never brought it up, knowing he had long days ahead. She understood; she always had. But even as her sympathy grew, so did her resentment. After their second child, he'd started sleeping in the living room, citing the need to avoid disturbing the kids when he left early.

Cora kept it all inside. She knew he thought he was doing his best, but it wasn't enough for her. What she needed wasn't just a paycheck or a break here and there; she needed her partner, the person she'd dreamed of building this life with. She needed him here, fully present, helping her shoulder the weight of the life they'd created together.