Losing a loved one is a weight that stays with you, a heaviness that never fully dissipates. I learned this at a young age when my mother lost her battle with breast cancer, leaving me at the tender age of ten. I can still remember the day she passed, the last time she brushed my hair and hummed along to an old rock song.
But it wasn’t just her physical presence that I lost, it was also the guidance and love of a mother. Our last conversation still echoes in my mind, her frail hand trembling as she whispered to me, “Promise me, Iris. Promise me you’ll never let anyone dim your light. You’re so special, baby. So incredibly special.” That was my mom, always making sure I felt seen and loved, even as her illness consumed her.
Before she passed, my mom had set up a trust fund for me. It wasn’t just money, it was her way of ensuring I had a future that she couldn’t be a part of. “This is for Iris,” she had told my dad and grandparents, “for her education, for her dreams. Promise me you’ll protect it for her.” And they all promised, even my dad. But as time passed and my mom’s absence became a permanent void, the promises meant nothing.
Two years after my mom’s passing, my dad remarried a woman named Marianne who came with her own daughter, Emily. At first, I thought this could be a fresh start for all of us, but I quickly realized where I stood in this new dynamic. Emily was the star, Marianne was the director, and my dad played the doting father. And I? I was just an afterthought.
