In the end, she hugged me and said, “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best. You’re always there when I need you.”
“You’re always there when I need you.”
That phrase had been a blessing then. Now I saw it as a curse, because I realized that was exactly what I was to them—someone who was there when they needed me. Not someone who existed for myself. Not someone with my own needs. Just someone available to solve their problems.
And with Robert, it had been the same. I remembered when he was twenty and going through a breakup. He came to my house in the middle of the night, crying. I stayed awake with him all night. I made him tea. I hugged him. I told him everything was going to be okay.
He said to me, “I don’t know what I would do without you, Mom. You always know how to fix things. You always know how to fix things.”
Another curse disguised as a compliment. Because that’s what I did. I fixed things. I solved problems. I was available. And at some point along that road, I stopped being a person and became a tool.
I closed the album and put it aside. My hands were shaking, not from cold, but from contained rage.
I remembered Mother’s Day last year, that day that is supposed to be for honoring mothers, to make them feel special, to thank them for everything they have done. Amanda sent me a text message at eleven in the morning: “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. We love you very much,” with a heart emoji at the end.
That was all. A generic message she probably sent from her bed without even thinking about it.
Robert called me at three in the afternoon.
“Hey, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day. Hey, can you watch the kids next weekend? Lucy and I need to go out.”
Not even on Mother’s Day could I just be the mother. I had to continue being the nanny. I told them yes, as always, and I spent that day alone, cooking for myself, pretending that I didn’t care.
But I did care. God, how I cared.
I got up from the couch and walked to the window. Outside, the street was empty. The neighbors’ Christmas lights were still on, blinking in the darkness—green, red, gold, colors that promised joy, colors that lied.
I thought about all the times I had put those same lights on my house, all the times I had decorated the tree alone, all the times I had tried to create a warm and cozy atmosphere for my family. And what had I received in return? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I remembered the year I got sick. It had been three years ago, a bad case of pneumonia that kept me in bed for two weeks. The doctor told me I needed absolute rest and that someone should take care of me.
I called Amanda.
