Her Mother, My Mother

Photograph of a sari detail.Her mother never wore a sari, my mother never did not. Her mother drove a Mustang, my mother walked everywhere, even though I hated being picked up last. Her mother never packed her lunches, my mother packed feasts, even though I wanted greasy, stale pizza from the cafeteria like everyone else. Her mother allowed sleepovers, my mother trusted no one, not even friends. Her mother went on business trips, my mother was… my mother, nothing else.

Some nights I wished I could swap my mother for hers. She looked skywards at planes growing smaller and smaller, and wished the same.


Hema Nataraju is a Singapore-based writer. Her work has most recently appeared in Wigleaf, Janus Literary, Nurture, and Best Microfiction 2021. She tweets as m_ixedbag.

Photo Credit: Susannah Anderson

7 Responses to “Her Mother, My Mother”

  1. Thompson Emate says:

    A lovely and poetic story.

  2. Olumide says:

    Different strokes in familiar places.

  3. Carlos says:

    It was a good story

  4. Gia says:

    Love your story! Dreams that never reach reality. šŸ™

  5. Shilpa Gupte says:

    Loved this, Hema! The last line, especially <3

  6. Mike says:

    Iā€™m getting acquainted w the genre. This one nails it- the rhythmic her mother my mother gives it a structure that is kinda hard w so few words. Nice.

  7. Chantal says:

    Great story.

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