The Understanding Daughter
I am the understanding daughter.
At least, that is what I have always been taught to be.
My parents divorced when I was still a child, and I stayed with my mother. I am not going to lie. I am grateful for that. My father was worse.
My mother always told me that she only had me. That I was the love of her life. That I was the reason she was still alive.
Oh, if only she knew.
The same daughter she said was the reason she was alive had spent years wishing she could disappear because of the weight of being that reason.
Because apparently, since I was the most important person in her life, and because she had tried her best to give me everything she could, I had to do my part too.
I had to be a good daughter.
An understanding daughter.
My parents divorced when I was still a child, and I stayed with my mother. I am not going to lie. I am grateful for that. My father was worse.
My mother always told me that she only had me. That I was the love of her life. That I was the reason she was still alive.
I was expected to understand her emotions, her bad days, her anger, her actions, her circumstances, and our financial situation. I was expected to understand everything.
It started with words that sounded loving but slowly became a burden. She told me that I was the only thing she had to keep her alive. Then, as I grew older, the expectations changed.
I needed to stop behaving like a child.
I needed to become independent.
I should not cry too much.
I should not talk too much because she was tired after working for hours.
I learned, little by little, that my feelings could wait.
Her feelings could not.
As I grew older, everything became heavier.
My mother remarried, and suddenly I had a younger sister. She has Down syndrome. And once again, I was taught to be the understanding daughter.
I was the eldest, so I had to be the one who gave in.
I had to understand that my sister was different. I had to understand that she needed more attention.
My mother told me she was proud of the daughter I had become. Independent. Understanding. Loving. Everything she had taught me to be.
But sometimes I wonder if she ever realized that I became those things because I had no other choice.
Because I was the eldest daughter, I became the hope of my family. And with that came more expectations.
I was not allowed to play with my friends very often. I was expected to stay home and play with my sister because she did not have friends of her own.
My mother became angry whenever I spent hours with my friends, even though I was only doing what ordinary children did.
I had to study hard.
I had to succeed.
I could not disappoint her.
I had to prove that all her sacrifices were worth it.
I had to make her proud.
And somewhere in all of that, I stopped asking what I wanted.
When I was in high school our financial situation was getting worse. My stepfather resigned from his job because of his health. We opened a small shop, and my mom started working again to keep ourselves going, but things did not get better.
Then, from that point on, my mother became furious whenever I bought things related to my hobbies.
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The strange thing was, I never asked her to buy those things for me. I saved for them myself. I saved half of the money she gave me for school. One day, I was saving for a concert, my dream concert. Then she started borrowing my savings. And just like always, I had to understand. So I did.
I understood her.
I understood that she needed the money.
I understood that our family was struggling.
I understood that my dream could wait.
My wants could wait.
I could wait.
Then came college. College did not magically make things better.
I had to survive on a very small allowance because that was all my mother could give me. I understood. But one day, I finally protested. I told her it was not enough to cover everything I needed.
She became angry.
She told me she was already trying her best.
And once again, I had to understand.
So I did.
I stopped going out with my university friends because I did not have enough money. Sometimes I secretly went out anyway, spending the little money I had saved.
My friends were kind. Sometimes they even paid for me.
And I was grateful.
But I was also embarrassed.
Because everyone else seemed to be living their university lives while I was constantly calculating whether I could afford to participate in mine.
And I still had another responsibility waiting for me at home.
My sister.
Before going to college, I had to look after her.
After coming home, I had to look after her.
While my mother was busy working, I became the person responsible for her.
Whenever I went out, my mother would call me.
Again and again.
She would get angry whenever I stayed outside for too long.
Even now, I am still the understanding daughter.
The daughter who has to understand her mother.
Understand why she cannot give more.
Understand why she is angry.
Understand why she needs me.
Understand why I have to stay.
Understand why my life has to be put aside.
But the thing is, I am tired of being the understanding daughter.
I am tired of being praised for being independent.
I am tired of being called mature when I was simply forced to grow up too early.
I became exhausted from being the daughter my mother needed me to be.
