My mother raised four children with hands that were always tired, but never empty.

When we were still very young, our father left for Lagos. There was no long explanation, no promise of return, just absence. In one quiet moment, my mother became everything at once: mother, father, provider, and protector. She did not announce her strength. She simply stood up and carried it.

Life did not soften for her. She moved from one odd job to another, anything that could bring food home. Some days she worked until her legs shook. Other days, there was no work at all. And on the days when pride had to be swallowed for survival, she begged in the neighborhood. Not because she was weak, but because her children needed to eat.

There were nights when hunger entered our home before sleep did. There were mornings when hope was all she had to offer us. Yet, she never complained loudly. She would tie her wrapper, lift her head, and step out again, as if courage was something she could borrow daily.

What kept her going was hope. Hope that one day, her husband would return. Hope that her suffering was temporary. Hope that love would remember her address. She waited for that hope even when it hurt her. Even when waiting became heavier than working.

She carried disappointment quietly, like a secret she did not want us to inherit. Then, her body began to fail her.

She developed a partial stroke at a time when she was still trying to heal, still trying to survive. The same woman who never rested was suddenly forced to slow down. Watching her struggle to recover felt unfair. It felt cruel. She had already given so much, her youth, her strength, her dignity, yet life was still asking for more. In the process of healing, she passed on.

She did not die loudly. She left the same way she lived, quietly, without demanding attention. But her absence made the loudest noise in our lives.

My mother did not have wealth to leave behind. She did not own land or property. What she left us was stronger than that. She left us resilience. She left us the knowledge that love can survive abandonment. She left us the understanding that sacrifice is sometimes unseen, uncelebrated, but deeply meaningful.

She taught us that a woman can be broken and still stand. That a mother can be tired and still give. That survival is sometimes the bravest form of love.

Today, when people talk about strength, I think of her. When people talk about single mothers, I think of her. When people talk about sacrifice, I remember a woman who begged so her children wouldn’t starve, who worked so her children wouldn’t stop dreaming, and who hoped even when hope delayed her healing.

My mother may not have lived long, but she lived deeply. And through us, her four children, she still lives.