To me, she is beautiful. On the outside, a feisty warrior of a young woman, prepared and ready to take on the world. Wanting to take Life by the horns and show it what she’s made of. And on the inside, a warm, caring, considerate and compassionate human being who puts the needs of others before her own. Always. Every time.

Exactly what I’d hoped and dreamed of for her. As a mother, exactly what I’d set out to achieve.

And yet, I didn’t realise it would come at a cost.

Today she looked at me with contempt. Everything about me irritates her. Just by ‘being’, I am in her way. She hates having to live back at home – graduated with no job and a slim immediate future. She hates the way I tidy things up in the wake of her chaos. And how quickly I stack the dishwasher with the multiple mugs that mark the hours she’s wasting, waiting for adult life to begin. And the pile of clothes I stack up outside her room, collected as I journey round the house undertaking the business of being a home owner.

To her, I am old. Past it. No longer needed. I’ve done my job. ‘Move over, mother. It’s my turn now.’

I watched in awe as she managed and organised a women’s baseball team from scratch last weekend. Put an invite on social media and people will come. That was her pure strategy. Seemed to work.

She had pens, paper and name badges for signing up; bats, balls, gloves and equipment for rookies to try; chocolate for energy levels. And a camera to record the event – make it Insta real.

Well done, my girl. Bravo.

And yet she has learnt all of this from me.

I wonder when she’ll realise.

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