Why I Refused My Mother’s Service.

She was on the phone talking with one of our relatives, and suddenly my ears got attention to what she said: “I can’t come; who will cook for them?”

We are like Tom and Jerry, constantly clashing over our thoughts and beliefs.

I saw her chores as a burden; she saw them as her duty.

Like a child who doesn’t know they are allowed to play, she didn’t know she was allowed to rest.

I have literally fought with my mom multiple times not to do my chores, like washing my clothes and utensils, cleaning my workplace, etc. She never used to understand me; to her, a clean house and a cooked meal weren’t just chores;

They were her language of love and her shield against a society that judges a woman’s success by how well she sacrifices herself.

I am a single parent’s daughter. My mom is learning to play the dual role of parent and raise us.

I understand that she feels the burden and pressure of standing alone in society and raising three kids with totally different mindsets.

My beliefs are a bit different from my mom’s, maybe because of her only.

I have seen her sacrificing all her wants and needs, sometimes for her kids, sometimes for her husband, sometimes for her relatives, and when no one else is left, she sacrifices for society as well.

Don’t you think finding such love is rare, and I am blessed to have it? But what about her as a human individual?

I was initially frustrated; however, setting my anger aside, I began to treat her as my own child.

I decided to break the generational cycle, decided not to carry this habit forward.

I allow my mom to be “selfish,” to be curious, and to be a student of life again through yoga, books, and travel that she loves and should have done long back when she was young.

She started understanding the true meaning of parenthood. Parents have been our first teachers; it’s their duty to teach the child to survive. Not doing everything for the child as a service of love.

Acting as an observer and stepping in only when needed. Not to prevent all mistakes.

She is yet to learn that joy comes from within, not through the lens of others.

If I were a parent, I would always teach how to learn and write.

Never be the “ink” that writes children’s stories for them; I would rather be the desk — the solid foundation they stand on while they hold their own pens and draw on those blank pages of life.

Finally I booked her tickets, forcing her to take that trip and live her life. It was just not a vacation for her; it was the end of a cycle of “sacrificial dependence.”