‘When I die, I want her beside me’
When I die, I want her beside me. Not for the sweet farewells or the whispered “I love yous.” I want her there in the way only she can be—stern, scowling, probably mad I didn’t tell her in advance that I was dying. I want her complaints, her raised eyebrows, her unsolicited remarks about how I should’ve done things differently. Because if I must leave this world, I want to leave it under the same gaze that raised me: critical, unrelenting, and painfully honest.
Growing up, my mother’s love was never the tender, soft kind you read about in books. It didn’t come with lullabies or gentle reassurances. It came with sharply worded corrections, a constant stream of unsolicited advice, and expectations that always seemed two steps beyond what I thought I could do. Her love wasn’t always easy to accept, but over time, I came to realize it wasn’t meant to comfort; it was meant to shape.
Her love was a symphony of scolding, a rhythm of discipline, and reminders that life will never hand things to you just because you cry. She taught me resilience not through hugs, but through hard truths. She didn’t tell me the world would be kind. She showed me how to stand tall when it wasn’t.
My mother is a realist. She doesn’t sugarcoat, doesn’t soothe just to make you feel better. She tells it like it is, and most of the time, she’s right. Her words cut, but only because they dig into the truth. Her honesty never asks for approval. It asks that you grow.
She never called herself a nurturer. She’s not the “hug you when you’re sad” kind of mom. She’s more the “Wala kang mapapala sa kakaiyak mo” type. Her version of affection was complaining about the umbrella you forgot to bring while handing you the exact meal you said you craved last week. It was tucking cash into my wallet while complaining no one ever washes the dishes. It was checking the thermostat in the middle of her anger just to make sure I didn’t get sick.
She has never let me sleep without some form of reminder, spoken or implied, that life moves fast, and hesitation will leave you behind. Whether through sarcasm or scolding, she made sure I never got too comfortable doing nothing.
But in those tirades, I found a kind of love I now recognize. A love that isn’t sweet, but steady. A love that demands more from you, not because you’re not enough, but because someone believes you could be so much more.
I am, in many ways, her mirror. I inherited her sharp tongue, her impatience, her no-nonsense tone. I complain like her. I argue like her. I love like her—grit first, tenderness later. I used to resent it. Now, I carry it with pride.
They say we become our mothers in time. I say I already am.
And so, when death comes for me, let her be there. Let her be her—sarcastic, blunt, mad, and worried. Let her hold my hand and say, “Ayusin mo ’yan, anak,” even if we’re talking about the angle of my coffin.
Because I don’t need perfection in that moment. I just need her.
Denchelle Z. Castro is a senior high school student from the University of Santo Tomas, taking up the HUMSS strand. Passionate about storytelling, advocacy, and service, she writes to give voice to the unspoken and find meaning in everyday experiences.
