My Aunt Dara always told me that I could do better. She raised me since I was eight. It felt like I heard those words, in her scratchy, bitter voice every single day. Her words drained my confidence. She was just like my mother, and I hated my mother.
At the age of ten, she refused to take me to the park where all the other kids played. I asked her every day, always optimistic that today she would agree. From her rocking chair, she would lower the book she was reading; stare hard into my eyes and say “Come on, Saylee, you can do better, go on now. She was just like my mother, and I hated my mother.
When I was thirteen, Aunt Dara began to repeat those words to me right before I went to bed. She would look at me with pursed lips. Most nights, I simply rolled over to face the wall instead of her. She didn’t stop me, just sighed a long “hmmhmm” as she shut the bedroom door. She was just like my mother, and I hated my mother.
The day I turned seventeen, I got dressed in my best, trying to put a smile on my face since it was my birthday. I came down the stairs and she met me going up. We both stopped; me awaiting her approval. Aunt Dara looked me up and down slowly, raising her eyebrows, scoffing, “You can do better.” Then she continued upstairs, not looking back, just like my mother.
I gave birth to my baby girl five years later. As I held her in my arms, taking in all her tiny features, those same words haunted my mind. “You can do better.” I shook them out. What kind of mother thought her very own baby wasn’t good enough? Then I remembered my mother had.
One day, after two months of grade six, my daughter came home from school, a worried look on her face. Later that night, as I lay in bed, she came in. “I got my report card.” I slid it out of her small hands and looked it over. She wasn’t doing well, that was apparent. “I know you can do better.” I said. She burst into tears and fell to her knees beside my bed. “Mommy, I’m sorry, Mommy.” She got up and ran back to her room. I laid there a moment, letting what I’d said sink in. I was just like my mother, and I hated my mother.
Without wasting another second, I shrugged off the covers and found Carly buried in her pillows, sobbing. I cuddled in beside her, softly rubbing her back. “I’m so sorry, honey.” I said, a teardrop sliding down my cheek. “I know you’re trying very hard and I will always love you no matter who you are, who you become or who you want to be. I kissed her cheek. I would never, ever be like my mother.
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