They won’t remember

 They won’t remember.

They won’t remember the nights I rocked them back to sleep when the world felt too loud.
They won’t remember the way I held them tighter when they cried for no reason.
They won’t remember the quiet whispers of “I’m here” at 3 a.m.
They won’t remember the way I watched their chest rise and fall just to make sure they were okay.

But they’ll feel it.

In the way they feel safe in their skin.
In the way they know love isn’t supposed to hurt.
In the way they trust that someone will show up when they need them.
In the calm in their nervous system when the world gets loud again.

They’ll feel that mama always came when they called.
They’ll carry that feeling of safety, even if they never remember where it came from.

And honestly?
That’s all I ever wanted to give them.

Love that doesn’t need to be remembered — just felt.