By Samantha Mckillop 
I love being home for you after school. Watching you play in the front yard with your friends, running in for toys and snacks, rallying a baseball team from the neighborhood with nothing but charm and confidence. You include everyone, lead with kindness, and beam with joy when you tell me someone new is coming over. You know I’ll be here, arms open, snacks ready.
I remember coming home for lunch one day, humiliated and angry. My classmates had spent the morning mooing at me. I wanted to disappear. I left school grounds and walked home. My mom was too busy with work or her boyfriend to do “this” again. On the fridge was a list of chores: clean the bathroom, wipe the windows, do the dishes, sweep and mop, tidy the living room, keep up with laundry. I hated myself, and I felt alone. That’s the day I had my first cigarette.
I spent my childhood desperately trying not to be a burden. My mother once said, “I gave up my life to provide one for you,” and it hit me like a sack of bricks. I became invisible, saying and doing whatever I had to so I wouldn’t take up space. Her anger and ego were one and the same. She had two personalities: the gracious hostess for outsiders, and the cold, calculating version saved for those closest to her. She didn’t care what happened inside our home, as long as we looked perfect to everyone else.
I tried to speak up. Once, I confided in a family member. My mother twisted it, made me out to be jealous of her boyfriend, and mentally unstable. She made me stand in front of him and apologize for “making him look bad.” Another time, I went to a shelter. I stayed for two weeks. She came, told me I was selfish, and that I needed to do this for her happiness. I realized then that her love was conditional, performative. I wasn’t her child; I was a tool she didn’t want but used. That was my final straw. I moved in with my dad.
Looking back, I became a chronic people pleaser. I made friends who took advantage of me, who stole from me. I thought being liked meant you were winning. I landed myself with a partner who treated me like a replacement for his own mother. It wasn’t until I became a mother myself that I found real, true friendships and started to see my own worth.
As soon as I knew I’d have children, I promised they’d have a childhood. No chores after school. No babysitting siblings. No lying to protect adults. No walking on eggshells. My kids would bring friends home without fear. I wanted a warm, safe, and open home. Every decision I’ve made since has been backed by research, therapy, parenting classes, and workshops. I still ask questions. I still learn. I apologize when I get it wrong. I listen when you say I’ve hurt you, and I do better.
I’ll never forget the night you pulled me aside and told me I hurt your feelings when I called you “tubby.” I was stunned. But I smiled and hugged you. You felt safe enough to tell me. You trusted me to hear you. That moment was everything. I got down to your level, gave you a genuine apology, and told you how proud I was of your courage. That’s when I knew: I was breaking the cycle.
Parenting is hard. When you were four, I noticed my anger was quick, my memory unreliable, and my follow-through nonexistent. I was overwhelmed, and I felt like I was failing. I talked to my doctor and was diagnosed with ADHD. I started medication and therapy, joined support groups, and read every book I could. I learned how to communicate better, how to regulate myself, and how to show up for you with intention.
Advocating for you has become a way to heal the child in me who never had a voice. When the school tried to push you out, I called the superintendent. I sat in a meeting with eight staff members and fought for your right to stay. I didn’t back down. I was the voice you needed and the voice I once needed too.
Every time you rise above, share your worries, choose words over fists, my inner child smiles. I have the privilege to grow with you. I get to raise you in a home filled with love, safety, and emotional honesty. And the safer I make this space for you, the safer I feel inside.
So when I see you laughing in the yard, inviting new friends, and asking big questions, I know I’ve done something right. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the mother I needed. But I became her. And that’s enough.
by Her View From Home 
by Connie Cumming 
