Three days after writing “The Mother I’m Afraid of Becoming,” a strong guilt lingered inside me.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t dramatic.
But it stayed.
I began noticing something uncomfortable — my daughter had been trying her best to be the best version of herself… for me. She had been adjusting to my constant changes. Listening carefully to what I said. Watching me more than I realized.
And then it struck me.
She wasn’t just listening.
She had been imitating me.
She screamed at the top of her voice — because that was what I did when I was overwhelmed.
She kept a long face when upset — because that was how I reacted in anger.
She played alone in the living room — because I stayed in my room, working on my laptop, telling her I was “busy.”
If she wasn’t supported, how would she truly understand what was right and what was wrong?
That Sunday, something shifted.
I sat beside her and read her a story. It was about a little boy who refused to put his toys back in place. Later, he stumbled over one and fell. He realized it had been his mistake.
I read that story not once. Not twice.
Ten times.
She had always been disciplined — ever since she was two years old, she had put things back almost 99% of the time. But that day, she didn’t just follow a rule.
She understood the reason behind it.
When I had earlier told her to keep the house clean and mess-free, she obeyed because I said so. But that Sunday, she realized that putting things back protected her from getting hurt.
And that changed everything.
Soon, she was narrating the story to her cousins — proudly explaining why toys needed to go back into their places. Her voice carried understanding, not fear.
After watching me read the same story over and over, she suddenly looked at me and asked, “Are you going to sit with the laptop for work now?”
It was Sunday.
I said no.
Her face lit up in a way that said more than words ever could.
While we were talking, I made her a promise.
I told her I would not call her that hurtful word again. And if I ever said it out of anger, I asked her to gently remind me once.
She smiled.
And she believed me.
Parenting felt incredibly real that day. Beautiful in its vulnerability. Children didn’t carry grudges. They love unconditionally. They forgive easily. They trust deeply.
And I felt blessed — not because I was a perfect mother,
But because I was given another chance to become a better one.
Comments