I came to Tulia to take a break from being a mother.
Not forever—just for a weekend.
Just long enough to hear my own thoughts again.

I booked the stay with barely concealed guilt.
Told myself it was for both of us.
Told Maya—my nine-year-old—that it was a little holiday.

But deep down, I wanted out.
Out of the routines.
Out of the homework.
Out of constantly being needed.

The moment we arrived, I handed her over to the garden.

Literally.

She ran toward the vines like she was being called.
And I let her go.
Watched her disappear between pawpaw trees and bougainvillea.

I sipped my Moringa tea in silence, half expecting her to return bored or begging for cartoons.

She didn’t.

The next morning, the staff invited her to help pick eggs from the coop.
I nearly objected—she’s not a farm child.

But before I could say no, she was already putting on her crocs.

I stayed on the porch.
Alone.
Finally.

I should’ve been thrilled.

Instead… I felt something amiss .

Not out of fear.
But curiosity.

What was she doing out there that she wasn’t doing at home?
And who was this version of her?

That afternoon, I wandered toward the orchard and found her crouched beside the gardener, eyes fixed on a millipede crawling across a leaf.

“It’s like a tiny train,” she whispered.

The gardener chuckled.
I nearly cried.

Not because of the millipede.
But because I’d forgotten how funny she is.

How deeply she sees.
How wide her wonder still is—even after long days in school and endless homework.

And I thought,

“How much of her have I missed out on?”

On the third evening, she asked if we could watch the stars from the rooftop.

We lay together on a pool bed.
Her head on my arm.
The sky a quiet mirror above us.

“Mama,” she whispered, “I wish we could stay here forever. ”

I laughed.
Then paused.
Because for once, I wanted to stay too.

THE RETURN

As we checked out, Maya asked if we could leave something in the Time Capsule Garden.

She wrote a note.
Wouldn’t let me read it.

I asked what it said.

She shrugged.

“Just something for future me. And future you.”

Mine said:

‘I came here to take a break from motherhood.
I left in love with it again.’

Sometimes rest doesn’t come from stepping away.
Sometimes, it finds you in the quiet joy of rediscovering what you already have.