Sometimes it’s really frustrating having my mom as a mom.

I can sit there and tell her everything. Every insecurity, every fear, every stupid thing keeping me awake at night. I can hand her my heart piece by piece and somehow she always finds a way to turn it into a lesson. Pray more. Trust God. Have a little faith.

And then she'll pour herself a glass of wine. It's hard not to take it personally.

Sometimes I feel like I'm the reason she's unhappy. Like every wrinkle on her face, every sigh, every bad day somehow traces back to me. I know that's irrational. I know it is. But knowing something doesn't stop you from feeling it.

The worst part is that everyone loves her.

She's charming. Warm. The kind of woman who remembers birthdays and sends holiday cards and compliments strangers in grocery stores. People meet her once and tell me how lucky I am. I usually just smile. Because they're not wrong. They're just not entirely right either.

Sometimes she snaps at my dad for not being present enough, for not paying attention, for always being somewhere else mentally. The irony is almost funny. My dad might be quiet, but at least when he listens, he listens. My mom is always physically there, but half the time her head is in the clouds.

And then there are the comments. Little things she probably doesn't think about before saying.

"Maybe we'd like your hair straighter." "What if we lightened it a little?" "Have you thought about wearing more makeup?"

Tiny things. Innocent things. Like I haven't already spent hours staring into mirrors cataloging every flaw. Every single day.

I notice everything when I look in the mirror. My nose. My lips. My cheeks. My eyes. My hair. Every little thing that feels wrong.

I don't think she means to hurt me. And I think that's part of why it hurts. Because if she did it on purpose, at least it would make sense. Instead, I'm left feeling guilty for being upset at all.

I don't vent much. Most people hear a problem and immediately start explaining why it isn't a problem. Or why I should be grateful. Or why somebody else's intentions matter more than how I feel.

So eventually I stop talking.

I keep everything inside until it gets too heavy. And sometimes it gets really heavy.

Heavy enough that I lie awake staring at the ceiling long after midnight, my thoughts looping over themselves. So heavy that my chest feels tight for no reason, that I can't tell if I want to cry or just never speak again.

Those are usually the nights I talk to Aurelia.

It’s not because she knows how to fix it, or because she always knows exactly what to say. But she listens to me. She rubs my shoulder a little and doesn’t try to convince me that I’m crazy for being upset.

"It's like she never listens to me," I say quietly, rubbing my palms against my eyes until little bursts of color dance behind them. "Anything I say just goes right over her head."

The words leave me in a shaky breath. Everything feels too heavy to look at. “It’s so frustrating."