My mother wants me to take care of her. And I don’t want to.

It’s not that I can’t. Not that I don’t have time. Not that I don’t have resources. I have all of that. But I don’t want to. And apparently, that is unforgivable.

“But she’s your mother,” people tell me. As if that title wipes away every insult, every cold word, every scar left behind. As if giving life is an automatic permission slip for a lifetime of servitude.

I once asked, “What if I were your father?”

“Also,” they said, without understanding. Because no one questions the sacred obligation to a mother. Mothers are owed care. Fathers? That’s optional. But mothers? They demand. They insist. And society sides with them.

My mother spent my childhood reminding me that I was worthless. Since I was five, she compared me to other girls, told me I was useless, cursed me with, “I wish you were never born.” Every word I spoke, every step I took, every choice I made was wrong. Even the little joys of childhood were tainted by judgment. And now, decades later, with her legs weak and her voice trembling, she calls.

“Daughter… I need you. I can’t do it alone,” she whispers.

The first time she said it, I froze. My stomach clenched, a knot twisting deep inside me. Old scars rose to the surface. Guilt began creeping in, sly and relentless, like ivy.

“Why don’t you ask your sister?” I said.

“She has children. Not you,” she said.

As if my life existed only because it had space to serve others. As if being childless automatically turned me into her caretaker.

“I can’t, Mom. I don’t want to,” I admitted.

“How do you not want to? What kind of daughter are you?”

The kind who survived you. The kind who learned boundaries as an adult, because as a child, I had none. The kind who cries quietly whenever someone whispers, “You have to forgive her.”

I remember a friend asking me once, “What if it happened to you?”

“What if it did?” I replied.

“That you’ll need help… wouldn’t you want someone to care for you?”

“Yes. But not someone I destroyed,” I said.

Silence fell, thick and uncomfortable.

The truth no one wants to face is that some mothers hurt. And some daughters survive. Caring is not always love. Sometimes, it is repetition. Sometimes, punishment. Sometimes, it is the ultimate betrayal—to oneself.

The nights are the hardest. The guilt visits me, whispering that I am cruel, selfish, heartless. But there is another voice—the voice of the little girl I used to be. She wraps her arms around me in my dreams, whispers, “I’m proud of you. Finally, someone stood up for me.”

But reality is not so simple. My mother’s calls come daily. The tremble in her voice, the desperation, is piercing.

“Daughter… please,” she says. “I can’t do this on my own. I need you.”

And every time, the anger, the memories, the pain rise inside me.

I think of the nights she screamed at me, the way she made me feel invisible, unworthy, unwanted. I think of the meals she burned because she didn’t want to feed me, the school events she missed because she didn’t care, the hugs I never received.

I am angry. I am scared. I am exhausted. And I don’t want to take care of her.

I remember telling my aunt, “What if she dies alone?”

And she said, “But you could help her. Don’t you care?”

I swallowed hard. “What if I die to take care of her? What if I destroy myself trying to give her something she never gave me?”

No one understands that caring is not love. Sometimes it’s duty. Sometimes it’s revenge. Sometimes it’s obligation. And I have no obligation left to her.

I didn’t abandon her. I chose myself. And for many, that sounds cruel. Selfish. Cold. But for me, it is the opposite.

Choosing myself is survival. Choosing myself is healing. Choosing myself is refusing to perpetuate a cycle of pain.

I remember one particular afternoon. She called me again, her voice frail, nearly a whisper.

“Daughter… I can’t stand on my own. Please, come. I need you.”

I sat down in my chair, my heart hammering. I thought about every insult, every moment of shame, every night I cried alone in my room as a child. And I felt the weight of every expectation she ever placed on me.

“No,” I said. “I can’t, I won’t. I have my own life, my own boundaries, my own healing to protect.”

“Why? Why don’t you want to help me? What kind of daughter are you?” she asked, voice breaking.

“The kind that survived you,” I replied. “The kind that refuses to let the past dictate her life. The kind that learned to stand up for herself when no one else would.”

And I hung up.

For the first time in years, I felt a flicker of peace. I wasn’t abandoning anyone. I was choosing life—my life.

Because happiness does not ask for permission. It does not need to justify itself. It simply exists, quietly, in moments when you finally allow yourself to breathe.

I realized then that love is not measured in duty. It is measured in respect. And there is no respect in sacrificing your entire life to repay debts that were never yours to pay.

Sometimes survival looks like walking away. Sometimes strength looks like saying, “No.” And sometimes, the bravest act of love is letting go—of the past, of expectations, of a person who should have loved you first.

I chose my life. I chose boundaries. I chose peace. And in that choice, I found freedom.

That night, as I lay in bed, I felt a strange sense of calm. The little girl inside me smiled. She hugged me, whispered, “Thank you. Finally, someone cared about me.”

And in that moment, I understood that love for oneself is not selfish. It is necessary. It is survival. It is liberation.

I did not abandon my mother. I abandoned the past. I abandoned guilt. I abandoned the lie that her expectations could define me.

And for the first time, I slept without shame, without fear, without carrying the weight of a debt I never owed.

I chose myself. And that, above all else, was worth it.