But now, after years, this freedom has been taken away from me.
My mother was a difficult woman. Growing up, I felt more like her enemy than her daughter. I always felt like I was a burden to her. Every accomplishment I made was met with a cold stare and the words, “You could have done better.” Every mistake ended with me yelling or ridiculing her. Her words left deep scars that no one but me could see.
For years I tried to gain her approval, even a little warmth. But it never came. When I turned eighteen, I moved out, dreaming of freedom and a life away from her criticism. I wanted to build my life on my own terms, without her toxic influence.
But now, after years, that freedom has been taken away from me. My mother is seriously ill. She has serious health problems and needs care. “It's your duty,” she said when I visited her after a long time. “You have no one but me,” she added bitterly, as if I had left her alone, and not she who had pushed me away for years.
I didn't know what to say. I felt a mixture of pity and anger. How can I take care of someone who has made me feel worthless my entire life? Do I really owe her something just because she gave birth to me?
The first few days of taking care of her were a nightmare. Every conversation ended in complaints. “Why are you taking so long? You were always so slow,” she would say when I tried to give her medication. “Your cousin would take better care of me,” she would add sarcastically, reminding me of years of comparing myself to others.
One day I couldn't take it anymore. “Why are you treating me like this?,” I asked, my voice shaking with emotion. “I came here to help you, despite how you've treated me my whole life. Why can't you just say thank you?”
She looked at me with an expression that was a mixture of surprise and anger. “Because it's your duty!– she replied sharply. “I'm your mother. I sacrificed everything for you, and now you're playing the victim?”
Those words hurt me more than I wanted to admit. Sacrifice? I never felt like she did anything for me out of love. Every moment of my childhood was marked by her criticism, every attempt at conversation ended in an argument.
But despite everything, I couldn't leave her. Maybe it was a sense of duty, or maybe I just still craved her approval deep down. Every day I took care of her, cooked for her, gave her medicine. Despite her complaints and cold words, I tried to be the best version of myself. But with each passing day, I felt like I was losing a part of myself.
One evening, as I helped her into bed, she said quietly, “I never wanted to be like this. I don't know why it's so hard for me to love you.” I froze when I heard those words. It was the first and only time she admitted that something was wrong between us.
I didn't respond. I couldn't. Those words were like a Band-Aid on a wound that had been bleeding for years. They were too late, but at the same time, they stirred something inside me.
Today I continue to care for her. I still don't know if I do it out of love or duty. But I do know one thing – I've learned that even the most difficult relationships don't have to define who we are. My mother may not have been perfect, but I won't let her mistakes rob me of the rest of my life. Although her illness may never allow us to rebuild our relationship, at least I know that I am trying to do what is right. For her. And for myself.
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