I stand at my balcony most evenings, staring at the horizon, as if the setting sun holds the answers I've been searching for. But instead, it offers reminders. The fiery sky becomes a canvas of my regrets - the sun slipping lower with every heartbeat, telling me another day has passed without him calling, without him asking if I'm alright, without him inviting me over to stay for even a week.
Every sunset feels like a closing door, another wound left untreated, another chance wasted. I whisper to myself, Stop it, enough, but the outburst never obeys. My heart plays the villain and the victim in equal measure, giving in to the role of a supporting actor in this relentless tragedy of my life.
And then I circle back to expectations - the forbidden fruit of motherhood. Why did I let that seed sprout inside me? Why did I believe I could plant it in the fertile soil of maternal love, and it would bloom into eternal closeness, into unconditional gratitude?
How naive, how childlike of me, to think my son - the boy I once cradled, the boy whose tears I kissed away, the boy whose victories I celebrated as if they were my own - would automatically become my support system when the seasons of life turned.
That he would remember the sleepless nights I carried on my shoulders so he could rest peacefully. That he would prioritize me even after he chose another to be his family.
But no, I never told him. I never once said it aloud - that I expected him to be my anchor when age began to betray me. I never asked for promises or commitments. Instead, I foolishly believed that love was loud enough on its own to guarantee a return.
That the memories of my sacrifices, my guidance, my silent endurance, would one day compel him to look back at me with reverence, to hold me close, to tell me I mattered still. I believed what no mother should ever believe - that love, if given selflessly enough, would come back in kind.
But expectations - ah, they are cruel tricksters. They seduce you with whispers of reward, then turn into daggers the moment reality doesn't align. And now I see it: my love should have been unconditional, untainted by hope of return. That is the definition of a mother, isn't it? The eternal giver. The one who bends, breaks, sacrifices, yet never demands.
A mother is meant to stand by her child's side - as friend, philosopher, guide, nurse, cheerleader - through every success and failure. To give endlessly, even when she is empty. To pour, even when her vessel is cracked. And yet, who stands by her when she can no longer lift herself? Who answers her silence when her voice fades?
Damn this expectation. This parasite, this monstrous curse, that I let take root in my chest. I thought it would flower into joy, into companionship, into shared moments of laughter that would carry me through old age. Instead, it grew into a noose, tightening with every passing day, choking the life out of me until I cannot tell if my grief is for him, or for myself.
Now, as I stare into the fading light, I hear the chorus of my own brokenness: my aching heart, my distorted mind, my tired soul. Together, they drag me through memories I tried to bury - the subtle neglect, the missed visits, the unreturned calls.
I had seen the signs all along, hadn't I? The hints were there, scattered like breadcrumbs on a trail I refused to follow, because hope blinded me. And my greatest sin, my most shameful foolishness, was this: I still believed. I still clung to the fantasy that everything would be better, that love would find its way back to me like a prodigal son.
But here I am, staring at another sunset. Another day lost to silence. Another wound deepening in the quiet. And I cannot help but wonder - did I create this fate with my own hands, by daring to expect what was never promised?