Not until was I aged 13 did I notice anything extraordinary about my mother. I always thought she was just a normal mother doing all of the 'normal' motherly chores.
We humans have a knack to take anything given to us for granted.
I could be no different.
My mother woke up early everyday, showered, exercised and finished all other chores earlier than seven in the morning.
She then busied herself with the kitchen, made our lunches and breakfast, ironed our clothes and (the part which I despised very much) , called us to get out of bed.
Me and my bigger brother.
Don't ger us wrong, I loved my mother , just the stereotypical love between a mother and daughter of course, but I loved her still.
It was the kind of love that prompts us to write long and meaningful essays , perhaps, during a particularly boring english class.
Yet I always glimpsed my father while writing such essays, or some imaginary women .
It was savage, I do agree.
That's our another peculiar behaviour, isn't it? We tend to dominate people whom we think are below us, and in this case , for my mother, it were her own children .
My mother, who always probably suspected this, did try to elevate her status in front of us.
It is heart wrenching to think about it now, I wish I could've gone back in the past and hugged her, but at that time all I really thought, was probably how to get through my upcoming maths test.
I hated maths.
And I was just eight or nine.
Our family had tough times for as long as my childhood did last.
When we were young, (I am talking about the time I was three or four) my mother skipped several bouts of dinner and breakfast to feed us, to buy my medications, to guide my brother whenever he insisted on buying that remote controlled car.
She pinched him when he didn't budge from his wish and looked longingly towards a brightly coloured chocolate .
We could scarcely get through the month, with all my medicines.
My mother always did suffer from recurring fever of typhoid. But she would be too tired, or too busy, or simply too poor to look after herself.
We couldn't afford any home maids.
My father stayed out of town at all times, no doubt doing his best securing our future.
They rarely met, my mother and father, or talked, perhaps that was the reason they didn't get along.
Get along!! No, they didn't get along, they couldn't even look each other in the eye.
I was, as always , partial towards my father.
He was my hero,as any father would have been for a little girl, and no I don't blame him for anything.
What drifted them apart from each other so much, is something I still do not understood, but maybe they were never really together to have drifted apart .
