The Emotions I Carry When I Go to See My Mother

It always starts with a message or a call-someone reminding me that it’s time for the “official” meetup. The one I’m required to have with my mother. Not just a casual visit, not a surprise lunch. A scheduled one, because of the court’s decision. And every time, a little weight settles on my chest. Not because I don’t love her, but because my heart gets torn in quiet, invisible ways.

I’ve lived with my dada since I was ten. He’s the one who’s seen all my awkward teenage years, my school achievements, my tears over exams and silly heartbreaks, the person I came home to every single day. He never left. He was always there like furniture, like sunshine, like a roof. Constant. Steady. Familiar.

But my mother lives abroad. She visits once in a while - this year, she came in July. And when she does, I’m expected to meet her once or twice during her stay. Just like the papers say. It’s nothing extreme, nothing unreasonable. But somehow, every time the moment comes closer, I feel like I’m walking into a storm that only I can see.

There’s no hatred. I don’t hate her. I don’t even know what I feel exactly. But there’s this strange, tight knot of guilt inside me. I wonder, “Will my dada think I’ve switched sides?” It’s silly, I know. But it’s real. I worry that just by saying yes to the visit, I’m hurting the person who gave up so much to raise me. The one who made my life feel normal when everything around me wasn’t.

And then there’s the other side of me that feels bad for feeling bad. Because she’s my mother. She gave birth to me. She wants to see me. She asks about me. She tries, in her own way. And when I do meet her, sometimes it’s okay. Sometimes it even feels nice. Familiar in a distant kind of way. She’ll ask if I’m eating enough, if I still wear glasses, if I’m doing well in my studies. Sometimes I smile. Sometimes I feel like a guest in my own story.

And then I go home. And I don’t tell my dada everything I felt, because I don’t want to burden him. I know he doesn’t ask many questions, but I feel like my silence protects us both. Still, it eats at me a little. It’s like being stretched between two homes and not fully belonging in either one.

I don’t know if this is what other people feel when their parents are divorced. I don’t know if anyone else feels like a walking puzzle with two different pictures on each side. But I know this: I’m tired of feeling guilty for loving two people in different ways.

I wrote this not to blame anyone, but to let it all out. To remind myself that emotions don’t always need to make sense. Sometimes they just need space.

So if you’re like me carrying quiet guilt, holding mixed emotions, trying to be okay know that you’re not alone. Sometimes, just admitting how we feel is the most honest and brave thing we can do.

HARU