Through the Unlocked Windows: A Daughter’s Cry for Her Mother

“Mom, are you awake?” My voice cracked like a brittle branch as I pushed open the door to her bedroom, the hinges groaning protest. Light spilled through the half-open blinds, striping the faded quilt in bands of gold and shadow. She didn’t look up from where she sat, hunched over the edge of the bed, her hands tangled in the old blue bathrobe that smelled faintly of lavender and lost time. For a moment, I thought she might pretend I wasn’t there, just like she had for most of the past year.

But then, softly, “Emily?” She sounded uncertain, as if she wasn’t sure she remembered my name, or maybe just couldn’t believe I was really there.

I hadn’t planned to come back home. Not after everything that happened—after that last fight, after I’d stormed out with my suitcase banging against every wall in the narrow hallway, vowing never to return. But life has a way of forcing us back into the corners we try hardest to escape. My roommate, Allison, said I was running away from my problems. Maybe she was right. But I was tired of running. Tired of pretending I didn’t care that my mom had locked herself behind closed doors, the house growing quieter and dustier with each passing month.

I took a deep breath, feeling the old ache in my chest. “I brought you some groceries. And fresh coffee. The kind you used to like, from that little place on Main.”

She nodded, but her eyes were vacant, fixed somewhere between the past and the present. I set the bags on the kitchen counter, my hands shaking. The silence pressed in around me, thick and suffocating. I remembered how, when I was a kid, the house was always filled with sound—her favorite old records, the hum of the dishwasher, her laughter echoing as she danced around the kitchen. That was before Dad left. Before the silence settled in.

“Em, you don’t have to stay,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible over the creak of the floorboards as I moved closer.

“I know.” I knelt beside her, forcing myself to meet her gaze. Her eyes—blue like mine—were rimmed with red, shadows beneath them like bruises. “But I want to.”

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. I tried to remember the last time we’d had a real conversation. Maybe it was that Thanksgiving, years ago, when she’d burned the turkey and we’d eaten Chinese takeout on the living room floor. Or maybe it was even further back, before the depression settled in, before she locked herself away and I learned to keep my own pain hidden.

I reached for her hand. She flinched, but didn’t pull away. “Mom, I’m worried about you. I know things have been hard since Dad left, but I can’t just watch you disappear.”

Her lips trembled, and for a split second, I saw the woman she used to be—the one who taught me to ride a bike, who held me when I cried after my first heartbreak. “I’m sorry, Em. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know how to be…anything anymore.”

I felt a lump rise in my throat, hot and sharp. “You don’t have to be anything but here. With me.”

She squeezed my hand, and I wondered how many times we’d both longed for this—just to be seen, to be heard, to be forgiven.

The days blurred together after that. I started coming by every morning before work, making small talk about the weather, the neighbors, the latest episode of her favorite soap opera. At first, she barely responded, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, she began to return to herself. She’d ask about my job at the bookstore, about Allison, about the stray cat that had started hanging around her porch. Sometimes she’d forget where she was mid-sentence, her mind slipping away like a kite in a strong wind, but I learned to hold on tighter, to anchor her with gentle reminders and patient listening.

One afternoon, as I watered her wilted houseplants, I heard her humming in the kitchen. I froze, the sound so foreign and familiar that it hurt. I peeked around the corner and saw her, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing the sink. When she caught me watching, she smiled—a small, tentative thing, but real.

“I thought I’d clean up a bit,” she said, almost shyly. “It feels good.”

I smiled back, tears stinging my eyes. “It looks great, Mom.”

But healing isn’t linear. There were days when the dark clouds returned, when she wouldn’t get out of bed, when my own anger flared—at her, at Dad for leaving, at myself for not being able to fix everything. One night, after a particularly bad argument, I found myself sitting outside on the porch steps, the cold seeping through my jeans. My phone buzzed. It was Allison.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice a lifeline.

“I don’t know. I feel like I’m drowning. I want to help her, but I don’t know if I can.”

“Maybe just being there is enough,” she said gently. “You can’t save her, Em. But you can love her. Sometimes, that’s all we can do.”

Her words echoed in my mind as I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, listening to my mother’s soft, uneven breaths from down the hall.

Spring came, and the house filled with light again. My mother started opening the windows, letting fresh air chase away the stale memories. She even joined me for a walk around the block, her arm linked with mine. The neighbors waved, surprised to see her out. For the first time in years, I felt hopeful.

On Mother’s Day, I made her breakfast—pancakes with strawberries, just like she used to make for me. We sat at the kitchen table, sunlight streaming in, and talked about everything and nothing. She reached across the table and took my hand.

“Thank you, Emily. For not giving up on me.”

Tears slipped down my cheeks, and I squeezed her hand back. “Thank you for coming back.”

Sometimes, I wonder if things will ever be truly normal again. If forgiveness is really possible, or if some wounds just heal into scars we carry with us. But I know this: love is messy and complicated, and sometimes, opening a window—letting in a little light—is the bravest thing we can do.

Do you think it’s ever too late to open the door to someone you love? Or are some windows better left unlocked, just in case we find the courage to come home?