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The love of a mother does away with scales and measurement altogether; it envelops and understands and embraces what is cracked along with what is beautiful.

Any mother who tells you she loves all her children—or appraises them—equally is lying. There is no way to measure or balance love. Love is an animal of its own bidding and inclination; it prowls and pounces and feels; it grows and it hurts and it withers.

The only being that defied the ancient standard—the standard of me first, me only, I, I, me—was a mother. A mother, in the bones of her bones, was not in balance. She gave, without ending. She thought not as an I but as a we and more often it was you, you, you, my darling, you. A mother protected, tipping scales, weighing odds, defying the system. And I did not have one. 💔

My friends are with me and I am not afraid 💔

WHAT !!!!!!! 😳😳😳😳😳

Through Love, all is possible 💔