In this movie I watched recently, there was a scene that made me pause for thought.

The hero is brash, emotionally closed off, angry at the world. Until, of course, he meets her, the woman who apparently sees right through him.

“You weren’t raised by your mother, right?” she asks.
He nods, surprised.
“I can tell. Only a mother can teach someone how to speak. How to love.”

I instantly felt the prickle of annoyance. How convenient to put all the burden on the woman.

It’s the kind of terrible messaging we can do without.

That a man will be inevitably emotionally unavailable, bad-mannered, or ill-tempered if his mother wasn’t around. That fathers always do a slack job.
And perhaps the worst, and the one I disagree with the most – that only mothers know what’s love.

It’s my dad’s quiet care that has taught me some of the deepest lessons about love.

Like the time I was getting ready for a family function and the drawstring on my salwar got stuck. I grumbled, frustrated while he patiently jiggled a safety pin around and fixed it.

Or the time he got me primrose oil tablets for period pain because he saw me sitting with a hot water bottle.

Or the many times he took my temperature, brought me medicines, and checked on me, not saying much, but saying everything.

Or the many times he says “I love you” and expresses his affection for me, unabashedly.

All actions that are usually, automatically attributed to mothers.

You see, a mother doesn’t always have to be a woman. A father can mother, too.

Because mother is also a verb. It means to treat someone with care, tenderness, and affection.

My dad?

He mothers beautifully.