The silence in the room was the most uncomfortable. Thick with resentment, then shame. My Amara hid her face in her palms, taking slow, deep breaths.
Regret settled in as I confronted myself for the first time. I was eighteen, on the edge of adulthood, yet I felt small, like a mere child who understood nothing.
Still, that wasn't an excuse.
The barrage of questions, and the accusations I threw at her. Her response was brief, cold and it cut deeper than anything loud or angry could have. I saw myself as an outsider, the child nobody wanted.
Her title was beyond ‘mother’. She was also a woman, her own person with desires and dreams that didn't begin and end with me. Her journey in life was never meant to orbit mine. I was only a part of her story, not its center. She was destined for more.
In a moment in time, she had chosen me when no one would. Left in a wicker basket by the side of a well, my cries called to her and she hugged me to her breast. I became her Lola and she, my Amara—my mother. I knew no other.
She had chosen me once and I just wanted her to keep choosing me.
Seeing her affections for another, a man, stung the worse. I wanted her love to remain mine alone, untouched.
Then she set me straight, her voice raw, steady and unyielding. She had given me eighteen years of her life. Now it was time for her to live again.
My Amara was reborn before my eyes. As more than my mother but a woman who deserved much more, including the affections of another.
And still, I would always be her Lola.
I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece—a tribute to mothers who refuse to lose themselves. It's inspired by the Freewrite #dailyprompt phrase "a moment in time".
Thank you for visiting my blog.
Image credit: Παῦλος
