Missing Mommy's Hugs

Bell traced the worn seams of her old teddy bear, Bartholomew. His button eyes seemed to watch her with understanding as she sat on the edge of her bed, the afternoon sun casting long, lazy shadows across her room. It wasn’t that her room was any less sunny, or that Bartholomew had suddenly decided to stop being soft and cuddly. It was just… everything else felt a little dimmer lately.

She remembered a time, not so long ago, when the house would hum with a different kind of energy. It was the energy of bedtime stories, of Mom’s voice, warm and soothing, weaving tales of brave knights and giggling fairies. Mom’s voice would wrap around Bell like a soft blanket, and Bartholomew would be tucked close, a silent witness to the magic. Mom’s hugs, too, were legendary. They were the kind of hugs that could chase away any bad dream, the kind that smelled faintly of lavender and home. But lately, the stories had dwindled to a hurried “how was your day?” and the hugs felt shorter, almost rushed, as if Mom’s mind was already on the next important thing.

Bell sighed, a small puff of air that barely disturbed Bartholomew’s fur. She missed those nights. She missed the way Mom’s fingers would gently brush through her hair as she read, the way her eyes would sparkle when Bell asked a question. Now, Mom was often tired, her shoulders slumped a little as she scrolled through her phone or busied herself with something on the computer. Sometimes, Bell would try to snuggle up next to her on the sofa, hoping for a bit of that old closeness, but Mom would just pat her head distractedly, murmuring about emails or work calls.

“Mommy?” Bell had asked just last night, her voice small and hopeful. She’d been sitting at the kitchen table, watching Mom prepare dinner, her back to Bell as she chopped vegetables with quick, efficient movements.

Mom had turned, a polite smile on her face, but her eyes seemed miles away. “Yes, sweetie?”

“Can you read me a story tonight? Like you used to?” Bell’s heart gave a little hopeful flutter.

Mom’s smile faltered for a split second before straightening. “Oh, Bell, honey, I’m so sorry. Mommy has a really big project deadline coming up. I have to work late tonight, and I’m afraid I’m just too tired for stories.” She turned back to the chopping board, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the wood filling the silence. “Maybe… maybe Daddy can read to you?”

Bell’s shoulders slumped again. Daddy was busy too. He spent a lot of time on his laptop, his brow furrowed in concentration, or was on the phone, his voice low and serious. When he did have time, it was often for quick games of catch in the garden, which were fun, but not the same as the quiet, cozy intimacy of a bedtime story with Mom.

She hadn’t meant for her voice to sound so wobbly, but a little tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek. Mom, finally noticing, turned around, her expression softening with a flicker of guilt. She wiped Bell’s cheek with her thumb. “Don’t cry, sweetie. It’s okay. Mommy loves you very much.”

But the words, though meant to be comforting, felt a little hollow. Bell knew Mom loved her, of course. Mom always said so. But love felt different when it was accompanied by hurried pats and distracted smiles. It felt like a distant star, still shining, but too far away to feel its warmth.

Bell hugged Bartholomew tighter. He was a constant, a soft, furry anchor in a sea of shifting schedules and busy grown-ups. He didn’t have deadlines or phone calls. He just had Bell. And Bell, in turn, had him. But even Bartholomew couldn’t replace the feeling of Mom’s arm around her shoulders, her whispered secrets, her warm breath on her hair as she read about dragons and faraway lands.

Later that day, while her parents were both on separate phone calls in different rooms, Bell wandered into the living room. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Her gaze fell upon a low bookshelf, usually filled with books and some decorative trinkets. Tucked away on the bottom shelf, almost hidden, was a large, dusty photo album. It was one of those old-fashioned ones, with thick, creamy pages and plastic sleeves for the photos.

Curiosity tugged at her. She’d seen it before, but she’d never really looked through it. She pulled it out, the weight of it settling into her lap. Bartholomew sat beside her, his button eyes seemingly encouraging her. She opened the cover, and the smell of old paper and memories wafted up.

The first few pages were filled with blurry pictures of a much younger Bell, a tiny baby with her parents beaming down at her. Then came pictures of her as a toddler, splashing in a bathtub, her face covered in bubbles, Mom and Dad laughing in the background. There were pictures of birthday parties, of trips to the park, of Bell sitting on Dad’s shoulders, her arms wrapped around his neck. And there were so many pictures of Mom reading to her, their faces close, their smiles genuine and full of a shared joy that Bell felt a pang of longing for.

She turned a page, and there was a picture of the three of them at the beach, waves crashing behind them. Bell was holding Mom’s hand, and Dad had his arm around Mom’s waist. They all looked so happy, so carefree. Bell remembered that day. She remembered the salty air, the warm sand between her toes, the way Mom had laughed when a big wave had splashed them. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Her fingers brushed over a photo of her and Mom, curled up on the sofa, reading a book. Mom’s eyes were crinkled at the corners, and Bell was nestled against her chest, her face alight with the story. Bell’s own smile was wide and uninhibited. That was the feeling she missed. That easy, uncomplicated closeness.

A new feeling began to bubble up inside Bell, not sadness this time, but a spark of an idea. It was a gentle warmth, like the sunbeam that had found its way onto Bartholomew’s fur. If she couldn’t get the stories and the hugs back easily, maybe she could… remind them. Remind them of all the good times. Remind them of the love that was still there, even if it was buried under a pile of busy.

She carefully closed the album, a new resolve settling in her heart. She looked at Bartholomew, a small smile playing on her lips. “We can do this, Bartholomew,” she whispered. “We can help them remember.”

The idea felt big and a little scary, but also exciting. It was a way to reach out, to show them how she felt without having to say all the wobbly, sad words. It was a way to bring back a little bit of the magic. She knew her parents loved her, she really did. But sometimes, she thought, even grown-ups needed a little nudge to remember what was truly important. And maybe, just maybe, a jar filled with memories could be that nudge. She stood up, the heavy photo album still in her arms, and headed towards her room, the wheels of her new plan already turning in her creative mind. The quiet house still felt quiet, but now, for Bell, there was a glimmer of hope, a whisper of possibility, and the comforting presence of Bartholomew beside her. She hugged the album closer, already picturing the colorful notes and the happy moments they would hold.