I don't tell Mom about things anymore.
Not right away.
I wait to see how she is first. If she looks busy or tired or far away, I keep it to myself. I can always tell her later. Or not at all.
Sometimes it's easier not to.
I still hope she'll show up—but I don't plan on it. Planning hurts more. Hoping without expecting feels safer, like wearing shoes a size too big so they don't rub blisters.
When other kids talk about their moms, I listen instead of joining in. I don't want to say something good and have it turn into a lie later. I don't want to say something bad and feel disloyal.
So I say nothing.
I've learned how to be flexible. How to make backup plans in my head without anyone noticing. If Mom forgets, I tell myself it's okay before she even apologizes.
That way, it doesn't sting as much.
When she does show up, I feel surprised—happy, but careful. Like if I move too fast, the moment might break. I watch her closely to see if it's real, if she's actually here.
Sometimes she is.
Sometimes she leaves without going anywhere.
I don't ask why she's tired anymore. I don't ask why she's angry. I don't ask why she stares at her phone or disappears into rooms with closed doors.
I fill the silence myself.
I clean my room. I finish my homework alone. I don't wake her if she's sleeping, even when I'm scared. I learn how to be quiet in ways that don't feel like a choice.
Adults say I'm mature for my age.
I think that means I learned how to disappear a little.
At night, when Mom promises tomorrow will be different, I nod and hug her back. I don't say what I'm thinking—that I believe her and don't believe her at the same time.
Both things feel true.
I don't stop loving her.
I just stop expecting her.
And that feels like growing up faster than I'm supposed to.