There’s a woman in this house who calls herself my mother. A woman who left her entire life behind, braving the dangers of a war and the dangers that come from crossing a border. A woman who had to learn the rules of a new country compared to the one she was used to. A woman who focused her time and attention working so that there was food on the table, clothes to put on our backs and a stable roof above our heads. How alone she must have felt. The bravery she held close is one that I know runs through me. I ponder who this woman could’ve been had she the courage that runs through the veins of her daughters. The woman that I know–is a mother that I could not reach as a child. A woman I’ve seen cry behind her whispered prayers in the pews of the religion she clings onto. A woman who overworks herself and willingly puts herself in a cycle of debt. A woman who is giving and caring, conditionally. A woman who would dress me in the “perfect” image. A woman who holds me to her standards. A woman who claimed people would talk if I didn’t “fit” their image, more so, hers. A woman who told me that I would rot on my own. A woman who told me that my emotions didn’t matter. A woman who made it clear that I would never be enough because I didn’t do what she wanted. A woman who never asked of my struggles. A woman that has hurt me with the worst of words. A woman that I find in other women who end up hurting me in the same way. This woman is my mother, and she is a stranger. A stranger who never answers questions about her past struggles. A stranger who never lets her emotions show. A stranger who has never shared her desires. A stranger who doesn’t take the time to understand who I am. A stranger I wish I hadn’t known. A stranger that will never change. I wish this stranger, my mother, were more like me. There’s a stranger in this house who calls herself my mother, and she is simply another struggling woman that I know.
write about your relationship with your mother // k.p
