She was always so stoic and still, sitting in her chair across from me. A piece of furniture with piercing eyes and listening ears. It seems odd to realise how little expression she had when I was telling her my most vulnerable feelings, and how safe I felt doing just that. Maybe the lack of expression allowed me to feel safe because I could not read on her face what she was thinking. She was excellent at her job.

She told me once that my Mother needed to be my Mother. That I was the child and I couldn’t support her in the way that she was asking. I felt sad about that even though I knew she was right. I wanted to rebel against that idea because I knew of – but could never understand – all the sacrifices my Mother had made to make me who I am. It seemed unfair to me that I could just say “no. I can’t help you” when she could never do that. Not to me; my siblings; my Father.

I can’t help but wonder who is there for the Mothers when they need that support. Do they just ask and ask and have everyone say “no. I can’t help you” every time they open their arms?