I frown to myself as my friend complains about her mother. It seems sinful to speak with such heat about the woman that gave you life and taught you how to live it best. I was unsettled by the familiarity of this heat, knowing it comes from the same venom I use to sting those I love.
“I get mad at mom for crossing my boundaries too.“ I almost say, but hold my tongue. It’s an odd sentiment after all, what if it’s not shared?
The truth is, mothers cross boundaries, not consistently, not irreverently, but there are times where those boundaries seem to hold no weight.
Can you blame them? They see their child in danger and can’t help but run to tend to their every injury.
It’s the scraped knee from falling off your bike as a kid, it always is. She’ll spot you from across the park and come swiftly to your side.
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