Isabelle Ambalavanar

A story from postpartum

I curled my hair for the first time in months.

I put on mascara and my soft, rosy blush.

I wore the blue blouse that matched my eyes and my new jeans.

I felt brand new, like a piece of the old me.

I wondered what she would think.

She hasn’t seen me like this before.

All she has seen is stained shirts, hair pulled back, bags under my eyes.

Today, she’s going to think that I’m beautiful.

But she didn’t care.

Her smile wasn’t bigger; it was exactly the same.

She didn’t act differently at all.

She didn’t notice my makeup.

She didn’t see a difference in my hair.

She just looked at me like she always does.

All she saw was me- her mom.

But that has always been enough.