I don’t believe my mother had ever been mature enough to be a parent. I do not mean that in a condescending and ungrateful way, but simply as a statement of fact that I’ve come to accept in response to her actions. After all, I hardly think any parent out there really thinks they’re ready – I’d think most get up in the morning and marvel that they did not or hopefully will not screw up their children too badly to be dysfunctional in this world. I don’t blame my mother for wanting to retrieve the youthful time that she has lost because of my birth. In fact, as for the most part I do not particularly mind that she ventures out for the large majority of the day, and night; just to know that she is safe and with good people is satisfactory in my standards. In any means she is still my mother and I have no ruling to impose any regulations on her, she will react defensively if I ever bring up the topic of ‘why’. And I’ve come to believe that she is simply guilty by her conscience.

This is not in ignorance of the fact that she is every bit of a mother in her understanding that she has an elderly authority upon me, and by all means continuously reminds me every time an uncomfortable subject arises..Say the questioning of “Why are you going on vacation again after you recently came back from one, what of your job?” Surely this is alright if the payment of her trip is solely funded by her new beau. Of course this extension of her freedom is allowed because she got laid off. Or in her terms put on call. I feel bad for her, for someone who has never had to work a real days work in all the years of her life. My mother quite literally transported from her father’s name to my father’s. Both were hard workers who funded the family well and made sure all was fed. The memories of my mother were vague, she was not home a lot, as she was often out socializing in tedious etiquette with neighborhood housewives or accompanying my father on business trips. But one thing I do remember of her is her will to put on a face. I remember her being absolutely  relegated to frenzy upon hearing the news that one of my father’s old friends were coming to visit – she had her hair permed into what I could only recognize to be an estranged arrangement of a mafia mob and her nails done this immaculate blue pasted with petty jewels, it was the first time I’ve seen her try on fake nails. I even remember my father pointing out her unnecessary extravagance, and the reality in which his old acquaintance probably (in nicer terms) wouldn’t give two shits about the well groomed-ness of her nails. So when I pondered the question aloud on where the hell our financial income appears from she quite simply regurgitate the liability of my existence against herself. Well, after 16 years I am honestly apologetic enough that I was conceived, I believe your notion has already been properly received. But one of these days I’ll stop being sorry that I am a burden to you, the fact that the title ‘mother’ and ‘daughter’ makes no difference in our mental stance for the most part – you’re quite scared too aren’t you. Nonetheless, I recognize your guilt  despite your words. It’s the ones that spill forth despite yourself in defense even after the matter has settled – the one that seems to desperately try to convince your audience the justification of why you’re allowed the entity of your freedom and expenses.

As you live the life of my sister – a 21 year old – I will be at home. As always. But one of these days, I will have my own home. And I hope you’d miss me as much as I’d miss you.

I know the sun rises, and that I’ll live another day. That’s all I’ve ever needed.