She wore magic in her pockets: A Mother’s Day story

By: Mishti Saini

I believed my mother carried magic in her pockets when I was little. She never showed it off, but it was there—in the way a scraped knee stopped hurting with her touch, in the way she could find lost socks, dreams, and hope in the same laundry basket. 

Mother’s Day is often wrapped in roses and brunch menus. But to me, it’s a quiet storybook holiday, meant to honour the woman who held the world together with an invisible thread.

My mother stitched joy into ordinary days. She could turn burnt toast into a breakfast adventure, rainy days into blanket forts, and heartbreak into a lesson told with warm cocoa. Her superpower? She never asked for praise. She moved through the house like a soft melody—folding clothes, fixing problems, remembering birthdays I forgot.

I remember one skating tournament like it was yesterday. I had practiced for weeks, hoping to win. But during the final round, I lost my balance and tumbled hard. The judges looked on, the crowd went silent, and my heart sank. I sat on the rink floor, stunned and sore, watching the trophy slip away.

Then I saw her—my mother, standing just beyond the barrier, clapping louder than anyone else. She didn’t look disappointed. She looked proud. When I came off the rink, she knelt to check my knee, handed me a cold drink, and said, “Falling isn’t the opposite of winning—it’s part of becoming strong.” 

That moment meant more than any trophy ever could.

Now that I’m older, I know: her magic wasn’t in her pockets. It was in her presence, her timing, her unwavering belief.

So this Mother’s Day, I won’t just hand her a card. I’ll thank her for every rink-side rescue, every quiet confidence boost, every invisible miracle she worked with love. I’ll say, “I saw your magic, even when you thought it was invisible.”

Mothers are the unsung heroes in our victory stories.

Happy Mother’s Day, to the magician who raised me.