My mother's way of saying sorry.

And after carefully observing my mother, I've come to understand something.It's her first time being a mother too. She yells when she's hungry. She yells when she's frustrated.She yells when she's having a bad day.Impulsively, she transfers aggression onto you over the smallest issue simply because her driver disagreed with the price of something she needed. But nobody talks about me.Nobody talks about me enough.The hurtful words hurled in anger lodged themselves in my chest like swords.The harsh tone.The criticism.The attitude used to command obedience and decorum.They all had a much deeper effect on me than anyone realized.Sometimes I cried.Sometimes I withdrew.Sometimes I sat in silence, feeling my heart pound so violently it seemed determined to burst through my chest or bring down the heavens themselves.And then it dawned on me.I was limited.I had wings I was not allowed to use.Where could I go?Who did I even know?How was I supposed to survive on my own?So I stayed. And after the overthinking, the resentment, the tears, and the isolation, my mother would eventually come around.She never outrightly said, "I'm sorry."Instead, she became softer.She cracked dry jokes.Hovered around me.Found little reasons to start conversations.Anything to lighten the mood. That was her version of an apology!! Over the years, I've learned to recognize the pattern. I've learned to navigate it. I've learned to live with it.But not without scars.Because regardless of what happened, African parents were always right at all times. Or at least, that's what we were taught.Explaining your feelings was considered disrespect.Defending yourself was considered disrespect.Having an opinion was considered disrespect."Come and see this white child and what he has invented!""Come and see what your agemates are doing!" And I always wondered...If I told you that upbringing shapes mentality and exposure expands possibilities, would you agree, Mummy?Would you understand????I wouldn't want to repeat history. I wouldn't want my daughter to look at me with eyes filled with fear, resentment, or silent disappointment. I want to be the kind of mother who says sorry when she's wrong. A mother who apologizes without guilt-tripping her child into believing they owe her gratitude simply because she fulfilled her responsibilities as a parent. A mother who listens.A mother who reflects.A mother who remembers that children have hearts too.But then, sometimes I wonder...Maybe my mother once had these same thoughts.Maybe she promised herself she would do things differently too.And then life happened.Maybe somewhere along the way, she became the very thing she once swore she wouldn't be. Regardless, I would rather be emotionally available for my child than raise a wounded child in an adult's body tomorrow. It's sad to see adults in their 30s, complain about their upbringing affecting their reality. Maybe we can rewrite history by taking note of our parents mistakes and making amends. And perhaps that is where healing begins.Not in pretending the hurt never happened.But in deciding that it ends with you.

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