Narrative Essay Mother

1523 Words 6 Pages
My mother raised me to be independent and taught me that the man doesn’t always have to be in charge. My mother raised me to have pride in myself, because I was worth something. My mother raised me to know right and wrong, because she raised me in the Roman Catholic Church. But my mother also raised me to hide my feelings, keep my secrets, and lie, because she wouldn’t understand my side.
I had always been my parents ' favorite child. I was Daddy 's little princess, and I was low maintenance, unlike my sister. I would do what my parents asked, and would ask for very little in return. I clung to my mother’s side whenever we left the house, since I was scared, and she would protect me, like mothers do.
It was in the seventh grade when things
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I had stupidly thought that telling my mother the truth would somehow mean I could stop hiding; maybe she would even be on my side during the arguments. That My mother might stop my dad and sister when they spoke because maybe she would just see that it upset me. I was wrong. She told me to keep on hiding to not tell people. We went about our lives like we had before; she just ignored it, probably hoping it would go away with time. My mother, whom I loved, didn 't love me, or more specifically all of me; she loved most of me, just not that part of …show more content…
I cried the day my mother said she was proud of me; she directly stated that she was proud that I was independent, that I was my own person with my own identity. She never explicitly said that she was okay with my sexuality; to me she didn 't need to. What she did say indicated to me that she would rather I be myself than attempt to be anyone else. And maybe she still wishes I were straight, but she is proud of me. That unimportant word that means so little to so many meant so much to me, since that is the most acceptance I have heard her utter in the past year. And I know my one sister prays to God every night so I will be cleansed of this sin, since she discovered my secret, and my father still doesn 't know, and probably never will; my mother, however, is proud of me. She had always told us she wanted to raise her children in an environment where we felt safe to be ourselves, and for the first time since eighth grade, I do not feel hated in my own

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