If mothers had colors

“Mama mo, blue!”

“Mama mo, pink!”

I heard two children teasing each other outside our small sari-sari store. They were playing pogs, laughing as they argued about the colors of their mothers. Their banter was lighthearted, as light as the narra blossoms drifting to the ground and dancing with the afternoon breeze.

I had been asked to watch the store that afternoon, and as I sat there observing them, a question suddenly crossed my mind: If mothers really had colors, what color would mine be?

Maybe it would be yellow, like the warm morning sun that peeks through our store each day. Green, perhaps, like the narra tree outside, standing firm no matter how many storms come its way. Or gray. Heavy like clouds before rain.

I searched, and I searched for an answer, but none came in a single shade, no single color felt right. There was only one thing I felt certain about: some things are too vast to be named in one color. And then I realized that my mother is not the most colorful mom. She is not even the best mother after all. You read that right.

She is not the kind of mother featured in advertisements or movies. She has never been the kind you can frame in gold or display like a trophy. She does not belong in stories of extravagance or easy admiration. Let me tell you why.

I wasn’t born into wealth. There were no golden spoons, no fancy gifts, no grand vacations. My father is a carpenter, shaping wood into homes. My mother—a labandera—shaped our lives with suds, sweat, and silent strength.

I remember sitting beside her as a child while she washed clothes in a large basin. The water turned gray from dirt and soap, but she never complained. Her palms are rough and peeling, like the worn pages of an old book. And yet, when she embraces me, those same tired hands become the softest place I know. I would watch her scrub stubborn stains while humming old songs under her breath. Back then, I thought washing clothes was ordinary. Only when I grew older did I realize that every shirt she cleaned carried a piece of our future.

The money she earned from countless piles of laundry were never just money.  It was water wrung from fabric, hours pressed into every fold. They were threads of sacrifice woven into our every meal, every school supply, and our every day. Every peso she handed me, I held like treasure, because I knew where it came from: from hands that had soaked too long in soap and water, from arms that carried more than they ever showed, from a love that worked even when the world had already gone to rest. With those pesos, I made my way through school. I studied. I persisted. I became an academic achiever, a published author, and now a professional teacher.

So is my mom really the best? I still don’t think so.

When I’m sad, she wraps me in hugs that feel like home. When I’m sick, her care is the warmest remedy.  On my worst days, her smile rises like the sun, quietly pushing the shadows away. Every birthday I celebrate is not just about me. It is also about her—the woman who gave me life. She lights the candle not just on the cake, but in my heart. When I’m hungry, she is like a mother hen, pecking through hardship just to feed her chicks. She would give her last bite, her last coin, her last ounce of strength without hesitation. She listens to my endless stories, my dreams, my fears, never once making me feel like a burden.

So, is my mom the best?

Still no.

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She is beyond that. Because the word “best” implies comparison. It suggests a second place, a third place, something measurable, something that can be ranked. My mother does not belong on a scale.  She wears no cape. She holds no crown. And yet, she gave everything just to be enough as my Mom.

I think I finally know the answer to the question I once carried: If mothers had colors, what would mine be?

Not blue. Not pink. Not yellow. Not green. Not gray.

My mother is like a piece of cloth washed again and again by time itself. She has passed through water, sunlight, storms, exhaustion, tears, and above all, love. Until every color that once clung to her faded away. She is every color that endures, every shade of sacrifice, every hue of love that gives and gives, without ever asking for anything in return. A color that only mothers possess.

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Zandro S. Bautista, 26, is a Filipino writer of children’s literature. He teaches Creative Writing at Far Eastern University and is currently pursuing a Master’s in Creative Writing at the University of the Philippines Diliman.