mothers

May 28, 2026

This piece is dedicated to my mother, Marjorie Bernice (McWhirter) Groff — one of countless mothers whose sacrifices slowly faded into the background of family history. Though often overlooked by many whose lives she helped shape, she remained deeply loved and remembered by her daughter Twila and by me, Benjamin Groff. Her kindness, endurance, creativity, and quiet strength remain part of the foundation upon which our lives were built. My sister sent me a writing that deeply reflects these sentiments.

There are mothers whose names will never appear in history books.

Love Lost To Time — Mothers Whose Dedication And Love Is Forgotten

No statues will be built in their honor.
No documentaries will celebrate their sacrifices.
No crowds will gather to remember what they carried through the long years of raising families, stretching paychecks, and trying to hold homes together while the world outside kept changing.

Yet millions of us exist because of them.

They were the women who quietly gave up pieces of themselves so their children could have a little more.
A little more food.
A little more confidence.
A little more hope.
A little more time to dream.

Many worked jobs nobody respected.
Others stayed home and performed labor that was never considered “real work” by the standards of modern society, despite the fact that their days began before sunrise and often ended long after everyone else had gone to sleep.

They cooked meals while bills piled up on kitchen counters.
They sewed buttons back onto school shirts.
They patched blue jeans.
They planted flowers beside homes that weren’t fancy but somehow always felt welcoming.
They stretched hamburger meat into meals for six people and somehow made it feel normal.
They worried silently so their children would not have to.

And many of them did all of it without ever hearing the words:
“Thank you.”

What is strange about life is that children rarely understand these things while growing up.

As kids, we remember bicycles, baseball gloves, birthday cakes, and Christmas mornings.
We remember rules we disliked.
Groundings.
Arguments.
Embarrassing moments.

But later, often decades later, the mind begins returning to smaller things.

A mother carrying groceries in from the car.
Her placing a purse on the trunk before tossing a few basketballs with her child in the driveway.
The smell of face cream before church.

mother playing ball after work. — Mother Playing Ball.

The sound of a washing machine late at night. A woman standing at the kitchen sink looking exhausted while still asking everybody else if they were hungry.

The sound of the vacuum sweeper running on a Saturday morning when all you wanted to do was sleep late. Only later do you realize it was the only time she had to get it done.

Small moments.
Ordinary moments.

The kind that seemed invisible at the time.

Many of those women came from generations that were taught not to complain.
They endured hardships quietly.
Some lived through wars, recessions, alcoholism, infidelity, illness, and disappointments they never fully spoke about.
Many buried dreams they once had because survival became more important than ambition.

And then age arrived.

One by one, society moved on from them.

The world became faster.
Technology replaced conversations.
Families spread apart.
Visits became shorter.
Phone calls became less frequent.

And somewhere along the way, many mothers who once held entire families together slowly became background figures in the very lives they helped create.

Some now sit in nursing homes.
Some live alone in quiet houses.
Some stare through windows waiting for visitors who seldom come.
Some have already passed away, leaving behind closets full of recipes, photographs, sewing kits, and handwritten notes nobody quite knows what to do with.

Yet after they are gone, strange things begin happening.

A certain perfume suddenly breaks a grown man’s heart in the middle of a grocery store.
A recipe becomes impossible to duplicate because “it never tastes like hers.”
A flower garden reminds someone of childhood.
A song from the radio decades ago causes tears nobody expected.

And people slowly begin realizing something they missed while rushing through life:

Those women were never ordinary.

They were the glue.
The emotional architecture of entire families.
The steady hand behind countless lives that succeeded because someone quietly kept the world from falling apart at home.

Not perfect.
No parent ever is.

But far more important than many of us understood at the time.

Maybe the forgotten mothers are not truly forgotten after all.

Maybe they continue living in the habits they taught us.
The kindness we show others.
The recipes we still cook.
The gardens we plant.
The way we comfort our children.
The way we try to survive difficult times with dignity because we once watched them do the same.

And maybe tonight, somewhere, someone reading these words will stop for a moment and remember a woman who spent most of her life making sure others felt loved… even while much of the world overlooked her.

If so, perhaps that memory itself is a form of gratitude long overdue.

— Truth Endures
benandsteve.com