Asma Mukhtar

The unspoken language between a mother and her autistic son There are no bedtime declarations. No spontaneous hugs. No words echoing through the hallway. Just silence. Or humming. Or the gentle brush of a hand against mine. I used to ache for those words. The kind that come freely in other homes – without prompting, without hesitation. But I’ve come to realize that love can be loud… even in silence. My son doesn’t say it. He might never say it. But I’ve learned to see it instead.

This isn’t about a stain. This is about learning to live with the mess – and call it love. There’s a blue stick figure drawn on the side of my couch. Right there, near the armrest – arms stretched out, smiling. My first instinct was to scrub it. To make it disappear. To fix it, clean it, erase it. Because that little scribble is my life. It’s my motherhood in one permanent line. This couch is more than a piece of furniture. It’s where I rocked my babies through fevered nights.

On International Self-Care Day, I asked myself a brutal question: who have I ever had to lose – if in my darkest hours, I’ve always stood alone? There’s a strange kind of ache that doesn’t scream. It doesn’t even cry. It just sits with you. Quiet. Heavy. Constant. Like air that forgot how to be light. I’ve had moments – breaking-point moments – when I wanted to pick up the phone, scream into someone’s chest, or simply whisper, “Please don’t leave me alone in this.” But then I remembered.