Mornings in my house were never the same.
Some days started quietly…
and some days started before I was even ready to open my eyes.
I learned early not to expect peace.
Because in my house, anything could change in a moment.
My mother was always the center of it.
She could be laughing one minute—talking endlessly, calling my name, asking for small things…
and the next minute, she would get irritated over something so small that I wouldn't even understand what went wrong.
I used to stand there sometimes, confused.
Wondering if I did something… or if it was just how things were.
She was friendly—more than anyone I knew.
She could talk to anyone, joke, smile like nothing was wrong.
But at home… it was different.
At home, her stubbornness showed more.
Her anger came out faster.
And her emotions… they didn't stay in one place for long.
There were days she acted like a child—
insisting on things, refusing to listen, getting upset if things didn't go her way.
And I…
I didn't know whether to act like her child…
or the one who had to handle everything.
I think that's when it started—
that feeling of standing in between roles I didn't choose.
I wasn't just a daughter.
Not completely.
Sometimes, I was the one adjusting.
The one staying quiet.
The one trying to keep things from getting worse.
It wasn't something anyone told me to do.
It just… became normal.
And maybe that's the strangest part.
When something repeats every day,
you stop questioning it.
You just live it.