I love my mother.

I love my mother’s flaws, I love my mother’s quirks, I love my mother.

I love my mother, but sometimes I wonder if I got my sadness and loneliness from her. I’ve seen her draw attention and befriend anyone in a way that’ll always be foreign for me. My mother probably thinks, “why can’t she just try?”, but you see, that’s not a quirk of my mother’s, not noticing how unalike we are, but a flaw: she’ll never accept the differences. I love my mother, and I love her quirks and her flaws.

I love my mother, but I wonder if my mother gave me my anxiety. If stress and anxiety can be hereditary, there’s a good chance she had a part in those particular genetics. I love my mother’s nitpicking, because she’s unaware of the feelings she hurts, and I love that my mother doesn’t change her behaivour based on age: we’re always her children. I love my mother’s overspending, because it’s hard to say no in the face of happiness, when you see her experience it so little.

I love my mother, but I do wonder if the unconditional love I give is given in return. I know my mother loves me, but does my mother love my quirks and flaws? Does she love that I’m so fucking picky about everything I eat, touch, feel, and look at? Does she love that I went from cleaning a whole house to barely being able to do my laundry? Does she love that I’ll never accomplish anything she thought I could?

I love my mother’s quirks, I love my mother’s flaws, I love my mother.