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Split
Photo by Anthony Tran on Unsplash
It’s too painful to watch you cry; I turn my head. The view of the disorganized living room fills my vision. The pieces of once a happy home are laying on the floor. How did we get here? I ask myself for the hundredth time. I help you wrap up what’s left of the dishes. They’re mostly chipped or mismatched. I wonder, is this how you feel on the inside? The thought makes me sad. I try to stay quiet for the rest of the night.
I see your name on the caller ID. My first thought is “do I have the energy right now”? I don’t, but I pick up anyway. Otherwise the guilt would eat me alive. My therapist says it’s not my place to tell you how to be happy. So, I do my best to be a spectator in your stories, to not point out where I think you were in the wrong. But I lose it on you anyway. How can you complain about your problems and never take my advice? How can we be so different when I grew inside you? After I drop the call, I cry. I am a terrible daughter. You have sacrificed so much for me, and even though I remind myself of that every day, I still can’t accept your way of life. Maybe if I trusted that you would make the right choice, I would. Maybe if I knew that you could be happy on your own, I would. But I don’t. Looks like no matter what I do, the guilt eats me alive anyway.
When I was a teenager and we disagreed, your word trumped mine. I always had to sit and listen to your lectures, but I never really listened. I would go to my happy place and think that soon, I will be out of your house. I thought that once I was out, I would no longer care about our differences. I have never been more wrong. I can’t help wondering if this is unconditional love or a life sentence?
