College. It’s a very difficult transition between childhood and adulthood. After high school I packed my bags, bought a winter coat, and moved two-thousand miles away to school in the Midwest. I considered this growing up, living on my own. My mother did not.
Letting go doesn’t come easy to any mother. Mine grew up Mexico with uncommon philosophies: family first, blood is thicker than water, and care for your own. She found many American practices cold and heartless. She never understood how a parent could push their child out of the house at eighteen, or how that child could turn around and place his parents that raised him into an institution to be cared for by complete strangers: An act she considers void of love.
As you can imagine, I can’t just tell my mom that I am an adult. She disregards the fact that I’ve moved out. I still come home for summer and Christmas holidays after all. When she looks at me she still sees her little girl. She says no age can change the fact that I’m her daughter, and she’s my mother.