If my mother were in heaven, she wouldn’t resemble the woman I remember.
I imagine peace woven into her shoulders instead of tension. I picture her laughing, mouth wide open, unafraid of being too loud, too much.

In my heaven, apologies don’t exist. I wonder if she’d know how to breathe without offering one every hour. The woman I knew was a chorus of “sorry.” Sorry for being tired. Sorry for the slowness of her smile. Sorry for the noise the pain made when it rattled her bones.

If she were in heaven, she wouldn’t sit for hours entertaining her tears like unwelcome guests. She’d be lighter—spirited, not just bone. Her hands wouldn’t tremble reaching for a teacup. She wouldn’t flinch at footsteps or keep one eye forever on the door. I don’t know when I first saw my father’s voice shrink her—six, maybe younger. But I remember how she folded into herself when he entered a room, as if the air thickened, trapping her. He hit her. Not daily. Not weekly. But often enough, that silence became her second skin. Often enough that I still wake with anger burning in my palms, nowhere to put it.

What shattered me more than the blows was the watching. His sisters. Standing there. Silent. Watching her being beaten. Sometimes, pretending not to see, pretending it was normal. That cold, complicit silence made the violence feel permanent. Sanctioned. My mother was afraid of everything. Fear wrapped her so tight, even joy needed permission. One searing memory: driving home from church, a man screamed “Stupid” from his car window. She cried in the driver’s seat. Not the traffic, not the heat, not the cancer—just a man’s voice, loud enough to crush her back into her shell.

Three years of cancer. Still, she ran the shop. Still, she went to church. Still, she folded wrappers, laying her life down in invisible increments. No rest. A woman in perpetual motion, bargaining with her own exhaustion.

If she were in heaven, she wouldn’t be a sacrifice or a martyr. Not a caretaker earning her right to breathe. Maybe she’d sleep past dawn. Let the phone ring out. Forget to return calls without guilt. Wear blazing orange. Sequin-covered sneakers. Maybe she’d finally feel free. But I don’t know. I don’t know if the good are rewarded or just remembered. If the afterlife has room for women who were never allowed to live.

My mother lived so many lives for others, she forgot her own. She gave God her Sundays, her sickness, and her silence. She taught me obedience before she taught me dreams. Even as her body turned traitor, she showed up like debt was due.

Smiled. Sold. Served.

These are the women I come from—generations of walking ghosts, alive but disappearing. Women folded into the margins of marriages. Mothers before they were human. Women so good, they never get to be anything else.

I refuse to live like that.

I won’t become a ghost before I die. Won’t let my softness only be cherished in memory. I choose to live here. Loudly. On purpose. Not later. Not when convenient. Not in some sweet hereafter. Now. Here. Earth. I claim my body without apology. Sometimes I catch myself in small acts of rebellion she never dared.

Sleeping late on Sundays, guilt-free.
Walking past catcalls without a placating smile.
Saying “no” without explanation.

Each time, I feel it—choosing the self she was denied. She worked until her body broke, believing work was dignity. I believe dignity is choosing the life you wake up to. She stayed. I left. When my bank account dwindles and panic whispers, I hear her, Is this wise? Is it safe? No. But it’s free. And I choose freedom.

I choose differently. No weekly pews. No children’s ministry. No forty-day fasts to make myself palatable to God. I still believe—but not in a God who asks women to shrink. I believe in the God who would have told her, Leave. Rest. Run. The God who doesn’t crave my exhaustion as proof of devotion.

Some days, guilt whispers, Living freely is betrayal. Then I remember—she had no choices like mine. No language. No tools. No time. I owe her more than survival. More than endurance.

I owe her life. With joy. Audacity. Ease. Maybe in heaven, she’d understand. Maybe she’d be proud. But I won’t wait for heaven. I want my freedom here. Now. While my body is warm, my voice strong, my name my own. I want to live the life she deserved. And I’ll do it without permission.

If my mother were in heaven…
God, I hope she is.
But I don’t believe in a sweet hereafter.
I believe in living this life like it’s the only heaven we get.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Nick Owuor (astro.nic.portraits) on Unsplash