A Mothers Warmth Novels & Stories

“Come along now, let’s get you settled in your room.” *** The next two days were filled with misery. My mother wasn’t the warmest woman. I had the feeling she didn’t really know how to be one of those kind and warm maternal moms they showed on TV, but she wasn’t at all bad. She made sure that my heat was comfortable, at the very least, and honestly, that’s all she could do. She had piled up my bed with plenty of sheets and pillows, stocked the minifridge in my room with beverages, and my desk was piled with snacks and all sorts of herbal medicine that promised to ease heat.

Not of me, but of her. “Luna, we…” “I said give her to me!” The woman obeyed, placing me into her arms, and the moment I touched her chest, I stopped screaming. Her skin was warm. Her scent was the first thing that calmed me. I could feel her heartbeat. I could feel... love, it was real, warm and cozy. I wanted to stay there forever. “She’s not cursed,” my mother said softly, staring at me like I was a puzzle she’d already solved.

Why would he even think he has any right to mark me? “There is,” Mom replies, pressing her palm to my forehead to check my temperature. “Her temperature is dangerously high. She needs to be put in cold water, with you in the tub to keep her steady. It should help bring her temperature down.” She rises, moving toward the bathroom. “No!” I croak, grabbing her hand weakly to stop her. “I’m cold. I don’t want cold water to touch me.” The words scrape out of my throat like sandpaper. Speaking feels like it’s draining the last of my strength.

I thought about a three-year-old at the western satellite wanting to tell me thank you for the warmth. Who had never known the absence of the web and was already using it with a fluency none of us who had lost it could approach. Who called it warmth? Because for her it simply was. Warm. Present. The natural condition of being what she was. I picked up the pen. Wrote to Elena. Tell Calla from me that the warmth is hers. Not a gift. Not something given. What she has always been entitled to. She is the right size for it and it is the right size for her.

Her body felt so small, so fragile beneath my touch, but the warmth radiating from her was real, undeniable. I hugged my mother like my life depended on it. And in that moment, it truly felt like it did. It was a desperate, fierce embrace, a silent outpouring of all the fear, the grief, the longing, and the impossible hope that had consumed me for months. My face buried in her neck, I inhaled deeply, trying to memorize the scent of her, the comforting, familiar smell that was inseparably linked to my earliest memories of safety and love.

I feel it happen in one instant through the bond. She turns completely still next to me. Her awareness is flooded with emotion, and it comes at her too fast, too all at once. Laughter of the tables below. Keep the kids warm with protective warmth. Comfort. Affection. Belonging. Not addressed towards her personally. To simply be around her openly. My mother takes a deep breath. I grab her hand under the table right away. “It's okay,” I mutter. I think for one horrible second, she's going to run away.

Please! The connection was weak. It was faint. It was barely there. But it was there. She could feel her mother’s presence. She could feel her mother’s love. She could feel her mother’s warmth. She could feel her mother’s touch. She could feel her mother’s love. That is all that mattered, everything else didn’t matter, not really. She would gladly trade places with any of those things if it meant she would ever see her mother again. Please!

I say "Why didn't you go home? You would have been able to rest and sleep well" She says and I shrugged "I couldn't leave you here, I want you to be the first person i would see when i wake up, and see you are the one I first saw this morning" I say and she smiles a little "Good morning" I heard my mom's voice say and i turn to look at the intruders who just bursted through the door, My mom and dad followed with Amanda and also Lucas with about five bouquets of flowers and chocolates, a get well soon card

Moriah waved her hand as she boarded the car. Moriah alighted from the car after hours of drive, she stared at the magnificent but devoid of warmth, mansion. She hugged herself as the coldness of the mansion was now seeping into her heart replacing the warmth her home in Manchester had placed in her heart. Would a baby bring warmth into this cold and impersonal place? Moriah smiled bitterly, she felt it would be unfair for the child if they can't provide a warm home for their child. She wanted to give all the best for her child. She wanted her child to have a warm home just like her baba and mama did to her.

“Dominic is not forthcoming.” “No,” my mother said. “He isn’t.” Warmly. The warm accurate observation of a woman who had known Dominic for four years. “He keeps things until he knows what they are.” Elaine looked at her son. “Yes,” she said. “He always has.” My mother sat. The room resettled around her arrival, the new configuration, and I watched my mother deploy the specific skill she had always had — the ease in rooms, the warmth without performance, the specific quality that made being in her orbit feel uncomplicated.