My Mother is a liar

MY MOTHER IS A LIAR

“You’re a liar!” I shouted one night, unable to hold back the storm of emotions inside me. My mother’s eyes welled up with tears, but she still forced herself to smile through them. That was the first time those words ever left my lips, and even now, I can never forget the sharp wound they left behind.

I grew up holding on to the promises my mother whispered into my young ears. She said that one day, we would no longer need to borrow money just to fill our stomachs. She promised that someday, we would live in a house strong enough to keep us dry when the rains poured down. She told me there was a safe, beautiful world waiting for me when I was grown.

Even as a child, I knew deep inside that not everything she said was true. But whenever I heard her voice, I wanted to believe. When I was hungry, she would smile and say, “I’m still full, child. You eat instead.” And I believed her, until one evening I caught her secretly eating plain rice with salt. That was the first time the thought crossed my mind: my mother is a liar.

As the years passed, more truths revealed themselves. Her “I’m not sick” was a mask she wore while her body burned with fever. Her “I don’t need new clothes” was a lie so that I could wear something decent on the first day of school. She swallowed her pain and denied her needs so that mine could always come first.

One day, curiosity and guilt weighed too heavily on me. I asked her, “Ma, why do you always lie?” She simply smiled, brushed my hair gently, and said, “Child, not every lie is bad. Sometimes, a mother lies so her child won’t have to feel the heavy weight of the world.”

Years rolled on, and I watched her grow older, her face marked with lines of sacrifice. She became quieter, her steps slower, her strength fading. Yet even then, she tried to hide her struggles. Her “I’m not thinking of anything” was nothing more than a veil over her worries. Her “I’m fine” was the cry of a weary heart refusing to break down in front of me.

And every time I think about it now, I find myself in tears. Because while I once called her a liar, I was the one blessed with the deepest truth—that she loved me more than she ever loved herself.

Now, I am grown. I have my own family, my own life. But with every breath I take, I carry the memory of her so-called lies. And only now do I truly understand:

Yes, my mother was a liar. She lied when she said she was full. She lied when she hid her sickness. She lied when she showed strength while she was breaking inside.

But those lies were the very reason I am standing today. They were not lies born of deceit, but of love. And if she were to live again, I would gladly call her a liar once more—because behind every lie was the purest, most selfless, most unshakable form of love: the love of a mother.

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