Are You Proud

I picked up crocheting on a whim while looking through a few of mama’s storage bins. She was thousands of miles away, and phone calls weren’t enough. I needed something—anything—to make her absence feel smaller.

In a small bin, I found them: a pair of crochet hooks and a couple of yarn balls. Just seeing them brought her back to me. They reminded me of all the beautiful crafts she used to make. Learning to crochet filled a gap in my heart. The rhythm of stitching brought me comfort and joy, soothing the longing I carried in silence.

My first attempt at crocheting was filled with fumbling fingers, unable to properly grasp the hook and yarn. My stitches were loose and uneven, all different sizes. I miscounted stitches and ended up with slanted edges on the rectangle I had planned to make. It was frustrating. It made me sad. But I knew I could do better.

After that, I tried making a few granny squares. My crooked rectangle couldn’t be saved, but those squares turned out surprisingly well. They felt easy—like progress—and gave me the motivation I needed to keep going.

It’s only been a couple of days since Mom came back. Everything was peaceful—we were enjoying our time together when my eldest sister walked into the kitchen.

Our kitchen is nothing grand. On one side, we have the sink, cabinets, and blue tile counter tops, along with the fridge and stove. On the other, we built extra shelves and a small table just big enough for two people to sit.

I had been perched on a small stool beside mama’s chair, resting my head on her thigh. I love the feeling of her fingers combing through my hair. It makes me feel special, even though she does the same for my siblings.

With all of us in the room, it got crowded. My eldest sister had taken up crocheting too. She showed Mom her latest project. Mom admired it and gently pointed out her stitches were a bit loose.

Excited, I stood up and rushed out to grab my own project. I had been eager to show it off, proud of the progress I’d made. I handed Mom my little crochet star. She beamed—happy that her daughters were learning her craft. I felt seen. Acknowledged.

Then… I wasn’t so sure how to feel.

Anger began to boil deep in my gut, slowly rising. I knew I wasn’t as experienced as my sister—how could I be, after just three weeks? But when she picked up my star and started undoing the stitches, it felt like a knife to the heart.

I sat there, watching. Listening to her critique my technique.

“You should do it this way, not like that,” she said.

Her tone wasn’t cruel, but it didn’t have to be. Her hands were unraveling something I’d made with so much care.

I tried to push down the anger. It didn’t work.

I’ve always been impulsive. I take “Actions speak louder than words” too seriously.

The next thing I did made the kitchen fall silent.

I pulled out the scissors from my kit bag and snipped the yarn still attached to the star. Then I grabbed the project I had worked on all week, stood up, and threw it away. I walked out without a word.

My mind was blank. The anger pumping through my veins tried to hide the pain I felt so deeply in my soul.

It wasn’t the first time I’d felt like no matter what I did, it was never enough. Always compared to my older siblings. My best was always “not quite right.” Her comments felt like bricks in my pockets, dragging me under—never letting me rise the way they did. Even the youngest got more leeway than I ever did.

I often felt invisible. Especially to my mom.

I lay on my bed after returning every last piece of crochet equipment, including my granny squares, back into storage. Facing my forest green walls didn’t soothe the ache in my chest. I tossed and turned. Not even my dog’s cuddles helped.

The anger extinguished the moment I closed the storage lid. But the hollow feeling left behind echoed nothing but sorrow.

I wanted to go back. Pick my star out of the trash. Apologize. Tell mama I didn’t mean it. That I was just hurt.

But time doesn’t rewind.

One can only move forward.

I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t be heard.

I didn’t scream. That would only hurt us both.

Still… I didn’t act appropriately.

This could have been avoided.

I never learn.

Later, I heard her whispering.

Maybe she didn’t mean for me to hear.

No más soy un estorbo.

I’m just a burden.

Nadie me quiere aquí.

No one wants me here.

Nadie me ocupa.

No one needs me.

Debería regresarme a México.

I should go back to Mexico.

And I wanted to cry out—

You aren’t a burden, Mama.

I need you.

I missed you.

Please don’t go.

I’ll do better.

I swear I’ll be better.

I love you.

Please believe me.

I know she meant well. She didn’t want to hurt me. She was just trying to help.

But years of growing up as the middle child in a Hispanic household leave scars on the heart. Wounds that still need healing.

I was immature. I acted out of line.

I didn’t think about how my actions might hurt her.

I didn’t mean to.

But still… We haven’t spoken since.

It may not be today.

It may not even be tomorrow.

But one day… I’ll sit beside her again, a new project in hand, seeking her guidance.

I’ll ask for her help.

I’ll listen—truly listen.

And maybe, just maybe…

She’ll run her fingers through my hair again.

Invite me to Mexico again for a short break away from the stress.

Not just because I’m her daughter.

But because she knows I

’m trying.

Still trying to be a better, greater me.

To be seen.

To be heard.

To make her proud.