My mother has always been very close to me. I was her eldest daughter, born in an unfamiliar city where she had relocated as a newlywed bride. She didn’t have any family or friends in this unfamiliar city. I was practically her only friend.

My mother began sharing her problems with me when I was very young. Sometimes I think she shared too much. She also told me intimate details about her personal life that a mother should never reveal to her daughter. But then I wonder: What could she do if she had no one else? I believe she would have died of loneliness if she did not have me.

Whenever my sister and I would return home from school, college, university, or work, she would tell us about her day and the problems she encountered: Her complaints about my father or the neighbors who ruined her day. The constant problems in the house. Her past stories, no matter how irrelevant they might be. And things about my younger siblings that bothered her throughout the day.

After my sister married, I was left to listen. My father and brother are usually present at home, but they do not listen. They are the ones who cause the most problems throughout the day, forcing me to listen to her at the end of the day.

The youngest two are teenagers, with their tantrums and hobbies. When she speaks too much, they openly express their anger and discomfort, which fuels her rage. Many days, when I return home after giving my full attention to my patients all day, I have a headache. I am edgy and irritable, but I try not to express it for fear of making matters worse.

What else can I do but listen when she has been suffering since her marriage? It’s been over thirty-two years, but I feel like all of her pent-up hurt and anger is exploding. Her constant crying as a result of her unhappy marriage and painful past experiences has caused me anxiety.

Interestingly, I am a very calm person on the outside and in the hospital, but I am always anxious at home. I’m constantly concerned about what will elicit her rage or crying next.

At the end of the day, I’m either mindlessly listening to her, offering her solutions, comforting her, or simply attempting to pacify her; the majority of my attempts are unsuccessful. I know she is the type of person who will notice if you do not give her your full attention, and even that may set her off. But I believe the only thing comforting her is knowing someone is listening to or understanding her.

My younger sister is always hugging my mother, kissing her cheek, and treating her like a child. My love language is giving gifts or acts of service (though they are few and only on certain days), but I do not feel that physical touch is one of my strong suits. I am more of a thoughtful person, but listening to her for hours exhausts me, and with an overly stimulated or hypersensitive nervous system, listening to her and constantly fearing her anger overwhelms me.

My mother never told me to help her with household chores. She feeds me while I’m lying in bed, washes my clothes, organizes my belongings, and does almost everything she can for me. The only thing I do in exchange for her is listen to her.

My mother is an excellent cook. She always ensures the food is ready before I enter the house. When I leave for the hospital, she gives me so much food that I have to share it with my colleagues to finish it. I listen to her, I bring her things, I do my best to ensure that she never runs out of money, I constantly ask her if she needs anything before I leave home, and I usually buy things for her that I know she will enjoy. She now eats fast food because I forced her to do so, and she can no longer resist. I converted her to pizza, despite her belief that not eating home-cooked food was extremely unhealthy.

I buy her clothes, and she appreciates my selection. She wears whatever I bring her without consulting her, and she never complains that she doesn’t like the fabric, design, or anything else just because I bought it.

My youngest brother is very close to me. He is a sensitive and creative child, and I’ve been like a shield for him, especially in our chaotic home. I’ve never criticized his hobbies or interests, and I’ve taken him anywhere he wants and always brought him whatever he wanted, so I’ve essentially spoiled him in every way.

His innocent face makes him appear younger than his age group. He talks too much and needs someone to listen to him at all times, preferably someone who will not criticize him for his unique and innovative ideas about everything. I believe he has found that person in me, so he is constantly clinging to me. I love him too much, treat him like a baby, and believe he is the person I have hugged and kissed the most in my life. Everyone blames me for treating him as if he were still in kindergarten even though he is a grown-up boy. Everyone blames me for not allowing him to mature.

My mother returns to her paternal home after several years. Her parents have died, and her siblings have their own families and busy schedules. So she only sees her brothers after a long time, or when a sibling visits from another country. She was leaving for Lahore last week, and I had already booked her tickets for the day she needed to leave. I was leaving for work in the morning and said goodbye to my siblings; they hugged me tightly, and I kissed them on the cheeks.

After saying goodbye, I was in a hurry to leave because the cab driver was waiting downstairs and calling me repeatedly, so I hugged my mother quickly and wished her a safe journey. I kissed her on the cheek without thinking about it. I understand it was not intentional; it just happened out of nowhere.

My mother smiled and said, “You know, you have kissed my face after years.”

I was stunned and exited the house. On my way to the hospital, I was thinking about how I could not remember the last time I was the first to kiss her, or when I kissed her back.

Parents are observant. Especially mothers. Having that child physically and emotionally connected to them since before birth allows them to recognize many characteristics in their children, regardless of whether they express them or not.

These thoughts make me ashamed that my busy life in medicine caused me to overlook such a simple gesture: The value of physical affection for my mother, the person who has cared for me since the day I opened my eyes. The person who nurtured me long before I was born and brought me into this world. Who had loved and cared for me unconditionally throughout the years.

And I was so forgetful and negligent that I had overlooked this simple thing for her.

Caring for someone, buying gifts, or solving their problems with money is nice and sounds lovely, but I realized I had forgotten one of the components of love: Physical touch. Perhaps it was her love language, but I never knew.

I’ve noticed something interesting about myself: I hug my friends and patients all day, and I frequently kiss my friends, siblings, and pets, but I avoid my mother’s touch.

I feel as if giving my love and care to my patients all day drains me and leaves me with no love to give to my mother, especially physical affection. It makes me ashamed that, as someone who showers physical affection to my friends and patients all day, I had forgotten that my mother also deserves it.

Living in constant overwhelm has caused me to try to run away from her. I mean, I haven’t hugged her enough to feel comfortable hugging her. She is the one who always initiates the hug, and I believe I learned to hug her back a few years ago. I was pulling my body away from her while allowing her access to my head. Maybe it was a defense mechanism.

In many of our relationships, we are the only recipients of physical affection. And I would say it’s fine if we have a different love language than them, but for people who have been trying for so long, we should do our best to reciprocate their feelings similarly. Perhaps not every day, but on some days. That would undoubtedly make them feel happy, loved, and valued.

Another thing I’ve recently realized is that our love may not always stay the same for a person. It sometimes expands, sometimes contracts. It’s not constant. It changes shapes and forms. It alters its modes of expression and preferences over time.

When I was younger, I believed that my mother was always right and my father was always wrong, and I had unlimited love for my mother. My love has taken on various forms over the last few years. Now I believe that while my father may be wrong, his actions toward my mother do not make him unworthy of my love. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been biased all these years. Perhaps listening to my mother’s complaints all day and observing my father’s silence is making me reconsider my rigid opinions.

I feel as if an innate and long-forgotten love for my father is awakening within me, and the stream of my love is making its way toward my father as well. Now, my acts of service and giving gifts are not limited to my mother.

I went to one of my cousins’ homes. He has four children; the last time I saw them, they were babies. This time, when I visited them after years, they had grown up, with the youngest being nine.

It was Sunday, and my cousin was at home. He works as a shopkeeper and spends his entire day there. He leaves home early in the morning while the kids are sleeping and returns home after everyone has slept. I noticed he was surrounded by his children that Sunday. They were not going to leave him for a minute.

The children were so happy, constantly playing with him and telling him about everything they did throughout the week. They were literally taking turns to ride on his motorbike with him. His oldest daughter was oiling his hair, and one of them was massaging his feet to comfort him.

The scene made me smile, as I thought that I meet my father daily and therefore do not cherish the moments I spend with him the way these kids were. I realized that I had never treated him with this much kindness.

Maybe that’s why they say you need to declutter your heart to make room for love. Feeling too overwhelmed by caring for cancer patients all day and being a good listener, I have forgotten to pause, look around, and determine which things are important to me and what needs to be removed from my heart and mind to focus on making more space for those who truly care for me. I realized that to create more space for love, particularly for my parents, I needed to forgive them.

I once read that forgiveness is similar to forgiving a debt. When you forgive a debt, you no longer require payment for it. Forgiving them does not imply that what happened—such as their unhappy marriage, lack of flexibility, personal attacks on each other, or involving their children in the majority of their problems—was OK. It means I shouldn’t blame them for all of my stress, anxiety, and overwhelming emotions. I should accept that my only role is to listen to them. I am aware that I cannot do anything to improve their situation. I have been trying for years.

Maybe I need to detach myself from their issues for a while and focus on my well-being.

Perhaps I have been too judgmental of them, and my bias against them has prevented me from being open in my expression of love for them. Perhaps forgiving them completely and accepting their flaws would make me feel more at ease about making more room for them in my love.

On the one hand, these realizations bring comfort to my heart and mind. However, the realization of how much I love them scares me now.

I think about my career options every day, and what will become of me if I am not fortunate enough to sense their presence around me. Who would care for them as much as I do, or who would put up with their constant banter all day?

Seeing cancer patients die in front of my eyes daily has taught me that I never know if I will be so fortunate to have them around me another day. Maybe I won’t be with them, or maybe they won’t be there.

This thought makes me sad because we may not realize how valuable our relationships are until the day we lose them. We don’t value people when they’re present; we miss them when they’re gone.

Dead people receive more flowers than the living ones because regret is stronger than gratitude.

Damane Zehra is a radiation oncology resident in Pakistan.