My mum is my harshest critic. When I saw my friends being showered with compliments by their mothers, “You are the apple of my eye”, all I got was, “When will you start dressing up like a girl.”
For years I thought she would never understand me, neither my love for books nor my fascination towards writing. She would crinkle her nose every time I picked a men’s Tee instead of a tank top. I would play Nirvana at the top volume and she would yell at me “What nonsense you listen to”. I grew up believing she disliked me and wished for someone else. But bad luck mum, you got stuck with me. I still like you though, when I’m not indifferent to you.
For years I saw you pouring your affections at my brother, even when he yelled at you and when I wiped away your tears. You never saw me. Or you did and thought, “Meh she’s okay. But where art thou my son?” Was it the chauvinistic society that changed the way you think, isn’t a mother supposed to feel love unconditionally?
I woke up at my 18th birthday, not expecting anything really, don’t know how you found out the book I had been wanting or the diary I craved to write in. You secretly knew how much I loved old Hindi songs, and somehow my playlist was on repeat. You told me, “I’m the luckiest mother alive to have a daughter like you.” I swear I wanted to break down and cry.
I don’t know what changed between all those years and now. Maybe you finally looked at the corner of your eye. But I am glad for those secret smiles we share now. I am glad to have a part of you all to myself.
By Alex
An Anonymous Confessor
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