I’m not the kind of person who gets along well with other people. I keep to myself, only talks when being addressed to, and I don’t go out that much. A wallflower, I guess. I don’t have a lot of close friends to brag about. There, at least, two or three people that I can call my close friends. Best friend, none.
What I’m trying to say is that it’s hard for me to classify these three remaining people, but, for the sake of this challenge, I’m going to pick one.
She’s a strong person. The strongest, I tell you. She took care of us, her four children, when our father was away. She had her flaws, a lot, but I look past that and saw a very beautiful, perfect woman. Too bad, I am not by her side and I am not able to provide now that my father can’t…or won’t.
She gave birth to me, her eldest child, at a young age of sixteen. At that age, I still can’t decide what to wear to school. She observes, she listens, and she suffers silently. She stood by as my father was drawn to another woman. She cries at night, worries when my father isn’t home after a week of absence, and still does. She still waits for him.
She got pregnant of her fifth child at the age of forty. My father still hasn’t change. After all of these, she still managed to understand him.
It’s difficult to see your loved ones hurting. It breaks my heart whenever I see her cry,
what really kills me is when she sits in her usual spot patiently waiting for a person who doesn’t deserve her.
My mum is my friend, my VIP.