Mama - by Maq

‎I hate you, Mama.‎I know I’m not supposed to say that.‎People are always telling girls to be grateful for their mothers. Especially girls like me. Especially girls with mothers who did everything. Especially girls whose mothers cooked and cleaned and prayed and worked and worried and woke up at night to check if they were breathing.‎But I hate you.‎God, I hate you. ‎I hate the way you used to call my name from the kitchen.‎And I’d pretend not to hear you.‎“Mariam, come and help me!”‎And I’d roll my eyes so hard they almost hurt.‎I hated doing the dishes.‎I hated folding your clothes.‎I hated that you always wanted to know where I was going.‎Who are you going with?‎When will you be back?‎Have you eaten?‎Did you pray?‎God, you asked so many questions.‎You were so annoying.‎Sometimes I would slam my door just to make you mad.‎Sometimes I would tell you I wished you weren't my mother.‎But for some reason, you never shouted back.‎That used to make me even angrier.‎You'd just look at me with those tired eyes, then look away. As though I had broken something inside you and you were too tired to pick up the pieces.‎I hated that too.‎I hated your tiredness.‎I hated the way you were always tired.‎You were tired when I was little.‎Tired when you carried me on your back.‎Tired when you washed clothes by hand.‎Tired when you sat beside my bed when I got sick.‎Tired when you walked down three streets to borrow money for my school fees.‎Tired when Daddy left.‎Especially then.‎I remember asking you where he went, and you said, “He'll come back.”‎But he didn't.‎You're a liar and I hate you.‎You became both parents but I wasn't even sure if I needed one.‎You started selling food in the mornings.‎You came home smelling like smoke and onions.‎You counted money you made at night underneath the glitching yellow bulb in our room.‎I watched you separate the notes into little piles, but you'd say there was no money the next day.‎I remember being angry that we couldn't afford the things other girls had.‎I hated my shoes.‎I hated my uniform.‎I hated the way you said, “Next month.” whenever I asked for anything.‎Next month became your favourite lie.‎Next month, we'll buy it.‎Next month, we'll fix the fan.‎Next month, we'll eat chicken.‎Next month, I'll rest.‎You never rested.‎I grew up. I got older. And you got smaller.‎I don't know when that happened.‎One day, you were carrying a sack of rice on your head.‎And the next, you were struggling to lift a bucket.‎One day, your hands were soft.‎Then they were cracked.‎One day, your hair was black.‎Then it was grey‎And still, I complained.‎You were embarrassing.‎You called too often.‎You didn't understand my clothes.‎You didn't understand my friends.‎You didn't understand why I needed money for things that, to you, were completely unnecessary.‎You didn't understand me.‎At least, that's what I thought.‎So when I got the university admission, I didn't want you to drop me off.‎I told you I was old enough.‎But you just smiled and patted my head, like I was a dog.‎“You'll always be my baby.”‎I rolled my eyes.‎I told you I hated when you said that.‎You laughed.‎Then you hugged me anyway.‎I remember being annoyed because your dress smelled like sweat.‎I remember thinking I would hug you properly later after you'd showered.‎There would be time.‎There is always supposed to be time, isn't there?‎The morning you died, I was angry with you.‎Isn't that the cruelest thing?‎We had argued the night before.‎I told you I hated you as usual.‎And you said, “I know.”‎You didn't even look surprised.‎Then you kissed my forehead.‎And I pushed you away.‎I wish I hadn't.‎I wish I had stayed there.‎I wish I had said I was sorry.‎I wish I had known that would be the last time your hands would touch my face.‎‎The next morning, we were walking home when it happened.‎I don't remember everything.‎But I remember it was raining.‎I remember the road was shining.‎I remember the sound of a horn.‎I remember you screaming my name.‎And then—‎you pushed me.‎You pushed me so hard I fell onto the pavement. and you stepped into the road.‎For me.‎Always for me.‎You spent your whole life stepping in front of things meant to hurt me.‎Poverty.‎Hunger.‎Loneliness.‎Fear.‎And finally, a car.‎I survived. And you didn't.‎People told me you died a hero.‎They told me I should be grateful.‎They told me God chose you.‎They told me you gave your life for me.‎They told me so many beautiful things about you that I wanted to scream.‎Because they didn't know.‎They didn't know you were also just a woman.‎A woman who wanted things too.‎A woman who wanted to sleep early.‎A woman who wanted new clothes.‎A woman who wanted to travel.‎A woman who wanted to fall in love again.‎A woman who deserved a life that wasn't spent making mine better.‎And I hate you for that. i hate you so much‎I hate you for giving me everything and keeping nothing for yourself.‎I hate you for making me live with the knowledge that you died because you loved me more than you loved yourself.‎Because now I'm here.‎And you're not.‎Now I have to grow old enough for you to never see it.‎I have to graduate without you.‎I have to get married without you.‎I have to have children you will never hold.‎I have to become a woman while carrying the unbearable knowledge that you never got to become the woman you were supposed to be.‎So yes, Mama.‎I hate you.‎I hate you for teaching me how to survive and then leaving me here to do it without you.‎I hate you for every sacrifice I didn't understand.‎For every meal you skipped.‎For every dream you postponed.‎For every time you said you were fine when you weren't.‎I hate you.‎And I'll keep hating you.‎I'll hate you for the rest of my life.‎And I'll spend the rest of it trying to deserve the life you died to give me.‎I'm sorry, Mama.‎I heard you.‎I hear you now.‎You can stop calling my name.‎I'm coming.•••••Hi everyone, this is just a little side note because of some of the comments I got😅 This insight is mostly just fiction and I don't hate my mother in any way, shape or form 😭 My name isn't even Mariam😭But thank you so much for reading ❤️ ❤️

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