I was too young to carry what you gave me.
Too young to hold your sadness, your stories, your fears. But I did. Because I thought that’s what love meant.
You used to tell me things I didn’t know what to do with how hard life had been, how much you sacrificed, how lonely you felt even with all of us around. I’d sit there nodding, trying to look old enough to understand. I didn’t. I just knew you were hurting, and I wanted to make it better.
So I became your comfort. Your sounding board. Your safe place. I learned how to listen without interrupting, how to fix moods I didn’t cause, how to sense when to be quiet. I learned to be the adult in the room long before I should’ve been.
But somewhere in there, I stopped being a child. I started shrinking whenever you needed space, and stretching whenever you needed saving. I didn’t realize how unnatural that was until much later until I found myself exhausted by people who reminded me of you. Until I caught myself apologizing for needing love back.
I don’t blame you anymore. I know life was unkind to you. I know you did what you could with what you had. You were tired, and you needed someone. I just wish it hadn’t been me.
Because I loved you, Mom. I still do. But I wish I got to love you as your daughter, not your anchor.
—Your Daughter