Never did I imagine I would feel jealous of my own child. Even thinking it now sounds unkind, and yet it is the truth.
When my daughter was born, I was twenty-six. Young, frightened, but happy. My entire world began to revolve around her. I left my job to care for her. My husband worked on building sites, away more often than not. I became everythingmother, father, friend.
The years slipped quietly by. She grew, and I beamed with pride at each of her steps. I bought her pretty dresses for school fêtes, stayed up late as she studied, made her favourite Sunday roast. I lived through her, though I never realised it at the time.
When she reached her teenage years, she began to drift away. Quite natural, I told myself. Thats how children grow. Still, an empty space opened inside me. She no longer confided in me as before. There were secrets, friends, a world that did not revolve around me.
Then came her leaving party before university. I watched her descend the stairs in her gown, and my breath caught. She was beautiful, confident, radiant. Beside her was a boy watching her with admiration. In that moment, I felt something more than pridea deep fear of losing her.
When she left for university in Manchester, the house fell silent. Mornings were emptyno rush for school, no strewn books, no laughter. My husband had grown used to the quiet, but for me, it felt like a punishment.
I began ringing her every day. Asked what shed eaten, where shed been, who she was with. I could sense her becoming more reserved. At times, she wouldnt answer. I would take offence, thinking how much of my life Id given for her, and now she hadnt space for me.
One weekend, she came home. I saw she was differentmore independent, assured. She told me of her plans, an internship, her dreams. Instead of sharing her joy, I warned her about how difficult and dangerous the world could be. Her eyes clouded. Only then did I realise I was stifling her with my fears.
That evening I sat alone in the kitchen, asking myself who I was, apart from being a mother. For a long while, I could find no answer. I had become so accustomed to living through her triumphs and struggles, Id forgotten myself.
I enrolled in an accounting coursenumbers always came easily to me, though Id never had the courage to start again. I found a part-time job. I began going out with old friends Id long neglected. Those first steps felt clumsy and strange, but gradually, I began to breathe easier.
My relationship with my daughter matured. I stopped interrogating her as if she was still a child. I listened as one adult to another. She began sharing more of her life with me, without my asking. I discovered that love isnt about holding someone close at any cost, but about giving them wings.
I still miss herher voice in the next room, her laughter, her presence. But I am no longer jealous of her life. I see her forging her own path, and Im proud to be part of her foundation, not an obstacle in her way.
I learned that children are not ours to keep. They are guests in our homes for a short while. It is not our place to hold onto them, but to help them gather the confidence to leave.
And I understood something elsea woman must not lose herself in motherhood. For when the children grow up and go, she must remain whole.
