When my mother passed away, I cried a lot.
Like a sudden rainstorm, most of her responsibilities fell on me. Unexpected. Heavy.
When I would prepare ingredients for our next meal, I would find myself crying. When I would do the dishes, I would feel regret that I didn’t help her when she was still living — and then I would cry.
Every time I felt tired and exhausted by all the responsibilities, I would cry.
I thought I was crying for her.
One day, a question came to me, almost like a whisper:
Am I crying for her — or for me?
I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know.
—
It’s now been over five years since her passing. I have adjusted to my new responsibilities. I feel settled. I have long stopped crying. I feel like I have moved on.
And yet, the question would still pop from time to time.
Did I cry for her — or for me?
I still refuse to find the answer. I feel like I know it — it’s obvious. But it still feels uncomfortable.
Because if it was for me, it feels selfish. Unloving. A betrayal of her memory.
But if it was for her, it feels honorable. Loving. Proof that I cared.
So I keep asking the same question, hoping for a different answer.
A whisper in my mind says: It could be both — it is both.
Is it both? That feels too safe — like a justification. An excuse.
—
But lately, I’ve been wondering:
Whoever it is for — does it really matter?
Maybe grieving doesn’t need a recipient. Maybe it doesn’t need to be proven or justified. Maybe grief could just be it — purely grief, felt honestly.
Not for her.
Not for me.
Just… that.