Never did I imagine that I could feel jealousy towards my own child. The thought still sounds terribly unkind, even now, as I recall the memory, but it is the truth.
When my daughter was born, I was twenty-sixyoung, frightened, yet overjoyed. My entire universe began to revolve around her. I left my job to care for her, while my husband worked long hours on building sites, often away from home. I was mother, father, confidanteall in one.
The years slipped by almost unnoticed. She grew, and I swelled with pride at every new step she took. I bought her lovely dresses for school events, stayed up late as she studied, baked her favourite shepherds pie every Sunday. In truth, I lived through her without being aware of it.
When she entered her teenage years, she began to drift away. I told myself it was only naturalchildren grow up, after all. Yet inside me, there formed an emptiness. She stopped telling me everything; she had secrets, friends, and a world from which I was no longer the centre.
Her school leavers ball came at last. I still remember watching her descend the staircase in her gown, breathlessly beautiful, brimming with confidence and light. Beside her stood a young man looking at her with admiration. At that moment, along with pride, I felt something elsea fear of letting her go.
When she left for university in Manchester, silence settled over the house. There were no hurried mornings, no jumbled revision notes on the table, no laughter echoing from down the hallway. My husband had grown used to the quiet, but for me, it felt like punishment.
I started calling her each day, asking what shed eaten, where shed been, with whom she spent her time. I could sense her growing distant, sometimes not answering at all. That stung. I had given so much of myself for her, and now she had little time for me.
One weekend she returned home. I noticed a changeshe was more independent, more self-assured. She spoke about new plans, internships, her dreams. Rather than share in her excitement, I found myself reminding her about how difficult life could be, about the dangers, about the need for caution. Her eyes darkened at my words. That was the first time I realised how suffocating I must have seemed.
That evening, I sat alone at the kitchen table and asked myselfwho am I, aside from being a mother? For the longest time, I had no answer. I had grown used to living through her joys and struggles, and somewhere along the way, I had lost myself.
Eventually, I enrolled in an accountancy course. Numbers had always come easily to me, but I had never dared to start over. I found a part-time job and reconnected with friends I had neglected through the years. The first steps were hard, but eventually I felt myself breathing more freely.
My relationship with my daughter changed as well. I let her be; stopped questioning her as though she were still a child. Instead, I listened, as one adult to another. Slowly, she opened up to me again. In time, I came to understand that love is not about clinging tightly, but about giving someone wings.
I still miss her, even nowher chatter from another room, the laughter, her presence. But I no longer envy her life. I watch as she moves forward in the world and feel proud to be part of her foundation, not an obstacle along her way.
I learnt that children are not our possessions; they are but guests in our homes for a while. Our task is not to keep them, but to prepare them to leave us, with confidence.
And I discovered something elseno woman ought to lose herself in the sole role of mother. For when children grow up and move on, she needs to remain whole.
