When did I stop reading you bedtime stories?
When did the lullabies loosen their hold, and your dreams discover their own rhythm?

When did I stop laying out your clothes for school, smoothing tomorrow with my hands?
When did I stop being the mother of a small boy who lived in color, sound and imagination?

When did I stop being the keeper of your childhood, and begin witnessing your adulthood?

When?

When I read the stories you wrote and heard your inner world speaking back to me.
When I listened to the songs you composed and knew your voice was there to rise.

When I watched you create the stage for your inspirations, moving through sound and shadow.
When I learned to step back without stepping away.

Somewhere between picture books and music books, between lullabies and lyrics,
time quietly changed its rhythm and released your Becoming.

And one day, time tilted.

The signature of time began to shape your gaze, influence your voice, adjust your current.

The boy I once carried in my arms, began carrying himself into the world.

And still, when I push through the tiredness of age, I hear the cradle song I once sang.

I am no longer the keeper of your nights or warden of your morning bells.

I now simply hold every version of you inside my heart.

No longer the author of your Beginnings. Only their first reader.

When did I stop reading you bedtime stories?

Why has that date been erased from your story?

I know it existed.

Perhaps it was meant to be forgotten. To stop me from trying to stop time.

Photo and words: Joëlle Rabu
12.08.25