She talked like my life was an extension of hers, like my adulthood didn’t exempt me from being the built-in parent I’d been since I was twelve. It didn’t feel like a request. It felt like an assumption.
A manipulation wrapped in gratitude. I stood up and walked out because I couldn’t breathe under the pressure of it. I love my mom, and I want to support her—but the thought of starting over, of raising another child who isn’t mine, terrifies me.
Now I’m stuck between guilt and self-preservation, wondering: Am I wrong for being upset that my mom seems to expect me to take on this baby before it’s even born? Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered.
Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
