Mother’s Day is this month.
I thought about writing you a letter for this occasion.
But I couldn’t write anything.
Then I told myself,
“Stop fooling yourself.
Remember all those bad Mother’s Day memories?”
Do you remember the violets I got you?
I swear I didn’t know they were only for sad occasions.
I used to always get you roses,
So I decided to change it up one time and get you violets.
It did not go well.
I still remember the cards I used to write you when I was in kindergarten.
I only realized how silly they were when I grew up.
You still have them.

What should I say to you?
You know, I always found it strange whenever I’d hear a mother saying,
“My children and I are like friends.”
I’d think to myself,
“How? Do you even get each other?”
It always feels like we both speak different languages.

For example,
“That store has nice pyjamas.”
“I don’t like pyjamas, mama.”
“They have an amazing new collection.”
“I don’t like them.”
“Okay, I’ll get you two.”
“Huh?”
That’s just a tiny example of how difficult it is to communicate with you.
And it doesn’t only happen with the small things.

It makes me laugh to think of your aspirations for me,
And I how I didn’t achieve any of them.
You wanted me to play the piano,
But I decided to play the trumpet.
You enrolled me in ballet classes,
I abandoned them for karate.
You’re an engineer,
While I suck at anything related to numbers and mathematics.

You had hopes that I would be athletic,
But I turned out to be a couch potato and bookworm.
You wanted me to be a girly-girl,
Who loves wearing high heels,
One who wouldn’t take them off while she’s out and spend the rest of the day barefoot.
Needless to say I came nowhere close to being that kind of girl.

It surprises me, how with all these differences,
Some people tell me that I’m exactly like you.
They say I’ve got your energy and enthusiasm.
We both don’t ever want to grow old.
We have the same inexplicable desire to make the lives of Egyptian people better.
They say I look like you,
That we have the same laugh,
That we both cry the same way,
And have the same happy dance.

Do you remember when I’d watch you cook?
I didn’t help.
I just liked to watch.
It made you so mad.
You’d start ranting about how you dedicated your life to me and my siblings,
And how no one even offered to help you out.
I’d kiss you and tell you,
“I’d still love you even if you hadn’t dedicated yourself to us.”
It drove you mad when I said that.
You expected me to thank you for “all the hard work you did throughout the years.”

And I used to always tell you,
That I could never stop loving you and father,
Even if you decided to run naked in the streets.

I hope you don’t stop loving me if I ever decide to run naked in the streets,
Or if I decide to become a bellydancer.

I used to make fun of people who’d say,
“I love that person for no apparent reason.”
How could there be no reason?
There has to be a reason.
I learned with time that not everything makes sense,
And that unconditional love is the most sincere kind of love.
It needs no explanation.
That’s why I believe that the purest kind of love is a person’s love for their mother.
Because it needs no justification.
Especially love for the mothers who are fans of throwing their slippers at their children,
Or ones who regularly emotionally blackmail their kids to get them to eat.
“If you don’t eat this, I’ll pray that I die.”
Remember?

I haven’t been living with you for several years.
I see you only during the holidays.
But I feel like our relationship has never been stronger.
Yes, believe me.
What makes me so sure is that,
Whenever you see me in jeans and sneakers,
You hold back your comments.
I know how it kills you to see your daughter dressed that way.

I also hold back my comments about the food you make.
Sometimes I can’t even tell what you’re cooking.
Being away from each other has made us kinder.
It made us accept each other for who we are.
You accept my ripped jeans,
And I accept your strange cooking inventions.
Even though at 23 years old, you still ask me things like,
“Why don’t you like the color red?”
“How can you not like red meat?”
But moving on.

I’d see my friends every year writing love letters to their mothers on Mother’s Day,
But I never had anything to say to you.
This time I decided to write something.
It went a little something like this:
“I love you because you’re my mother.
I love you because you raised me.”
Then I crossed it all out.
“What’s special about that?” I asked myself.
“What’s special about her raising you?
I could say I love you for your beauty.
But you’re not the most beautiful woman in the world.
I love you with your messy hair and garlicky odor.
I love you because…
It’s not because of anything.”

Let’s try again.
“Dear Mama,
I love you. Fullstop.”