I ask her why she is tired. I ask her what worries her. She looks at me and I already know. She is tired of always being the grown up of the house, the one who watches out for Dad, the one who cooks, cleans, provides rides for her little sister. She has always played the role of the second mother. She tells me she never got to be a child, a child who could play without worrying about her little brother, a child who could play without wondering when mother would return.
She is eight and mother is gone. For the next five years, mother will be away. The little girl begins to feel responsible for what her brothers do, for what happens in the house. She begins to think that if something goes wrong it will be her responsibility to fix it. But she is only eight. She should be careless, free of guilt, free of blame. Suddenly she sees herself growing up. In her little mind, she is already a grown up who tries to fill the space of her absent mother. Someone forgets to tell her that she is a child and doesn’t need to worry. Someone forgets to remind her that she shouldn’t feel responsible. Someone forgets to tell her that all she has to do is play with her dolls, clean after herself, wash her teeth before bedtime and do her homework. No one ever does. And she grows up without ever having a childhood. Mother returns but her baby daughter is too grown up, too mature to yell at her for being gone for so long, too old to cry or whine or ask for a new pair of shoes.Taking care of others eventually becomes her job and she never forgets to reach out to others and give them her hand.
I cannot look into her broken eyes, eyes that have seen beyond their years, eyes that have been impaired beyond repair. Beneath her fragile figure is a strong woman, a woman of beauty, passion, and courage, a woman who I will always look up to.