My mother never said

she was tired.

She simply became quieter.

That was how I knew.

The plates were washed

a little slower.

The evening conversations

became shorter.

As a child,

I thought mothers

were made differently.

Like walls.

Always standing.

Always available.

Always knowing where everything was.

Who had eaten.

Who was sick.

Who had homework.

Where the missing socks were.

Which child was pretending

not to be hungry.

I did not know

a mother could be tired

of being needed.

I know now.

I remember her hands most.

Those hands

that could knead dough,

wash clothes,

braid hair,

wipe tears,

cook for ten,

and still find the strength

to touch my forehead

before bed.

Hands that knew

how to comfort everyone

except themselves.

Sometimes I wonder

who comforted my mother.

Who told her

she had done enough?

Who asked

whether she was afraid?

I wish I had known.

I would have sat beside her.

I would have taken the bowl

from her hands.

I would have said,

“Mum,

leave it.

The dishes can wait.”

But children are selfish

without knowing they are.

We think mothers

are permanent.

We think fathers

are permanent.

We think home

is a place that waits for us

exactly as we left it.

Then one day

the chair is empty.

The voice is softer.

The hands move slower.

And suddenly

all the ordinary things

we ignored

become sacred.

Now when my mother calls,

I do not rush her.

I listen.

Even when she repeats herself.

Especially then.

Because one day

there may be no story

to repeat.

No voice

to complain.

No hand

to reach through the phone.

And I will give anything

for one more ordinary conversation.

So this is for mothers:

For the meals nobody thanked you for.

For the clothes you washed

while your own heart

needed tending.

For the dreams

you postponed

so someone else could breathe.

For every “I am fine”

you swallowed

because the family needed

you to be.

We noticed.

Maybe not then.

Maybe not enough.

But we notice now.

And if love

could travel backward,

I would send it

to every tired version

of my mother

and tell her:

You were never invisible.

We were just too young

to understand

how much of yourself

you gave away

to make us whole.

About the poet

Gideon Adeyeye is a Nigerian-born poet and spoken word artist based in Manchester, UK. His love affair with poetry began in 2018 during his final year at university at Dwelling Place, a programme organised by FCS. Watching poets perform with such depth awakened a fascination with the power of spoken words. With vivid storytelling, Gideon turns lived experience into poetry that feels both personal and universal. His work often journeys from pain to purpose, from hardship to hope, asking what we become when life demands strength before we are ready.

For Gideon, poetry is more than words on a page, it is testimony. A way of looking back at where we have been, honouring those who carried us, and declaring that our beginnings do not have the final word.