Her words stung, not because of the request for help, but the entitlement with which she demanded it. Our relationship had always been strained, marked by her emotional unavailability and my desperate need for her affection. Yet, here she was, asserting that our past didn’t matter, that all was now neutral and I was obligated to assist her

Victoria had always been a formidable woman. Her presence in any room was palpable, often leaving a trail of unease. I, Natalie, her only daughter, had borne the brunt of her cold affections and harsh criticisms throughout my life. Now at 70, her demeanor hadn’t softened with age, and her demands had only grown more insistent.

It was a crisp autumn morning when she called me. I hadn’t heard from her in months, not since our last argument over something trivial yet explosive. The phone rang persistently until I, begrudgingly, picked it up.

“Natalie, it’s your mother. I need you to come over this weekend,” Victoria’s voice was as stern as ever, no pleasantries exchanged.

“Hello to you too, Mom. What’s the matter?” I replied, trying to keep my tone neutral.

“I’m your mother, you owe me help,” she declared bluntly. “I’m not getting any younger, and there are things around the house that need fixing.”

Reluctantly, I agreed to visit. The drive over was filled with anxiety. Each mile closer to her house resurrected old grievances and painful memories. When I arrived, she was waiting at the door, her expression unreadable.

Without a greeting, she handed me a list. The roof needed repairs, the garden was overgrown, and the basement was cluttered with decades of hoarded memories. I spent the weekend working, while she supervised from her armchair, occasionally barking orders or critiquing my efforts.

As night fell and I prepared to leave, a part of me hoped for a moment of reconciliation, a thank you, or perhaps an overdue apology. But it never came. Instead, Victoria remarked, “You’ll come back next weekend to finish up, won’t you? You owe me that much.”

The drive home was quiet, my thoughts loud. The realization hit hard; our relationship was a one-way street, her needs always taking precedence. Despite the years and the physical labor I had invested, our emotional divide remained vast and, perhaps, unbridgeable.

Weeks turned into months, and the pattern continued. Each visit left me more emotionally drained than the last. Victoria never asked about my life, my struggles, or my feelings. Her world revolved around her needs, and I was just a satellite, caught in her orbit.

One chilly winter morning, I received a call from a neighbor. Victoria had passed away quietly in her sleep. The news brought a complex cocktail of relief and sorrow. I mourned not for the relationship we had, but for the one we never would.

At her funeral, I met few who truly knew her, and many who shared similarly strained tales. It was then I realized, some wounds are too deep to heal, and some debts, too complex to ever be repaid. My duty had been served, not out of love, but out of obligation. And as I walked away from her grave, I knew it was time to start healing, not for her, but for me.