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The love of a mother from the inside

The love of a mother from the inside

by Kyle T.


My mother’s love during my incarceration was unceasing, and ever so deeply was her devotion. She not only gave birth to me; at this point, she protected and preserved me when I was most vulnerable. Her hiatus would have been to my detriment; I would have failed not only survival but possibly the will to live also. From turning myself in to finishing my sentence in the Penitentiary, mother remained lovingly reliable. Even after denial of bail, she was the trumpet and glue holding the network of family and friends in a state of love for me. Mom was my window to my family and the outside world. She was the visitor I could count on every few days, rain or shine. Behind the glass, I saw tears held back and selfless fake smiles to protect me from negativity.

My guilt poured as she aged 10 years in the span of one, from all the stress. The prosecutor wanted 14 to 16 years and mother just wanted to make sure I was going to survive the next few years. Often when I was able to call out, I couldn’t speak when my mother picked up. Like a lost little boy that needed his mom, and had nothing left in me to go on, I couldn’t speak a word, not even hello. If I had spoken, I would have come undone in the worst way, and in jail, its forbidden to cry at all because you would immediately get preyed upon. “Who is this?! I am going to hang up if you don’t talk?!” Then she went silent for a few seconds because intuitively she sensed it was me. “Son? I know it’s you, I know you can’t talk, and you need to hear my voice. Listen to me; you will be ok; everything will work out. I love you son, and everyone loves you. We will not stop loving you and will always be here for you.”

As an immigrant, oblivious to Western incarceration, she asked my lawyer if there was a way she can go to jail with me so she can feed me because I was shriveling up from the outcome.

She prayed constantly and cried out to God everyday and night. She fasted and made many promises to God wanting to trade her life for mine. I tried to stop the visits, but mother never failed on them, even when I became so hopeless and couldn’t go on believing there was anymore hope to get out or survive. I wanted to be forgotten because of the pain from the glimmer of hope.

Mom always reminded me to pray to God constantly and told me God will take care of me in there and He will watch over His isolated children. Mother was at every court session, many times with food in hand, hoping to give me a bite because it absolutely tortured her to see me so thin. Years later to this day, I watch her pray everyday before every meal, and I see her do it under her breath for everything. She reminds me that no one stands beside another as much as a mother for her child. There is nothing comparable to a mother’s love, in my opinion. From my childhood to my incarceration and the aftermath, my mother had become my hero because of all that she is and continues to be in my life.

This article originally appeared in Faithfully Magazine and CatholicYYC.