She’s shattered inside. With all the growls coming from a tired heart, to every shotgun sermon and stressful rejections, she’s fed up. Her mom, the only person who cried of pain just to let her breathe, made her feel that she is the most terrible daughter on earth. Every time the scowling takes place, she would breathe in and out asking herself, “Am I that worst? I always make her hate me. I knew she was tired of my mistakes. I wanted to renew myself. I wished to be a good offspring who’ll never let her get ruptured inside; just because of disappointments, frustrations… Because I wasn’t the perfect daughter that would obey her simple commands at all times, be the reason of her smiles instead of high blood pressure; the one who’ll bring her good vibes, not bad sensations.”
She hated herself. She feels sorry every single moment her mother shouts at her. Although seeing her like that was never new to her anymore, and she never wanted to hear her speaking words akin to knives passing through the eardrums, leaving scratches right on the heart.
She loves her. She loves her to the extent that she could spend her whole life just taking care of her‒ just like how her mother does. She loves her to the point that she would merely grasp all the pain, wishing each teardrop her mom sheds costs a drop of her blood.
After all these, she wanted to say, “Shout at me, get angry, cry, but never expect me not to do the same, not to breakdown. Your pain will always be my fraught, as it counts doubled on my part. I love you mom, and I am sorry for not being perfect. But please let me know that you became grateful of my existence, for I knew you did… and I extend all the glory and thanks to the Lord who made you become my mother.”
She loves her, not knowing her mother loves her more than she loves herself.
April 12, 2016