Love is an investment. Children are arguably the best stock on the market, because you can try to make them the outcome you want.

You can give her a childhood, stories, perhaps even your morals. She coos when you’re near, cries when you are far. She likes you better than him, and when he is gone, you raise her. You smile when she draws nothing objectively significant, when she hugs you close, when her fingers get sticky. You yell when she disobeys, when she is strong willed. Her eyes water, but eventually she yells back. She grows quickly, earnestly. When she says she is too tired to brush her teeth before bed, you sit her down and brush her teeth for her. You drive her to school and she walks home, until she drives herself. She does well in school, but is often surly and tired. Shock and disbelief overwhelms you when she tells you she thinks of dying. “Don’t be stupid,” you say automatically, “You have so many things that other people long for. You may as well kill me and your dad instead.” She looks away. Your money pays for the therapy appointments, the medications. You watch your investment grow, and you realize you invested more than you ever thought you would. Your world is nearly eclipsed, and hers is rising. She is beautiful, and you have forgotten that you used to be as well. College, the cusp of success. Your comments about the schools closest to home are heard, but you continue saying them anyway. She was yours for so long you almost forgot that she wants to establish herself independently. When you are withering, a shell of youth, of glorious youth, you see it in her. You spread the magic cream over your wrinkles, slowly, but crumpled paper won’t uncrumple. You live through her. Her successes are yours. You scarcely talk about yourself to others, instead you boast proudly about where she is and what she is doing. You wait by the phone on Sundays. The house is immaculate upon her return, the cuisine exquisite. You are extra attentive. She smiles, and you live for it. You go out with friends and count down the years until retirement. You ask when she is going to bring him home. You ignore the faltered smile and cling onto the “soon.” You see him in her, you see yourself. She is not you, or him, but she is as naive and stubborn as both of you were. Her happiness is your joy. She knows this, and feels the obligation in almost everything. She struggles, but she succeeds. She is independent. She has made it. You miss her, and talk with her often. The arthritis only worsens, the end is inevitably nearing. She invites you in, and you go. You smile, and ask about grandchildren. She smiles back, the smile just for you, and says “soon.” Sometimes you forget things, like what you ate the day before, or where you are. She is with you more often, and you are in bed more often. You speak of the past, she listens. She massages your back, drives you to the doctor. She holds your hand. Your investment has given you more than you had hoped for. The dividends returned, the checks cashed. It has given her to you. It has given you you. You are hers, for as long as the sun grounds the earth.


Love is an obligation. Mothers are arguably the biggest obligation, because they have given you everything.

You learn quickly. The nice, round piano teacher, Sue, told you that you soak things up like a sponge. It was one of your favorite compliments. The guilt of not practicing was almost forgotten in that moment. Yes, you are a sponge. On the ride home you tell her, both of you soak in the pride. In youth, you do as you are told more often than not. This patience, this obsequiousness makes you “good.” You like being good. Although, it is good fun to sometimes stand on the toilet lid and pour cold water on her when she showers. Those you are unfamiliar with scare you, you hide behind her dress. She is yours, your protector, your provider. She isn’t perfect, but she is yours. You know this because you can ask her for things, you can crawl into her bed whenever you want. In this simplicity you live, happy and without many obligations. Soon, the pressures multiply. School, relationships, mental health, physical health, community service, self-consciousness, and family are tasks to be constantly fulfilled. No one is perfect, and you can’t balance them all, though you try. Your temper is short, and you often overlook her. The future, the promise of independence, is your salvation. Individual freedom, where your obligations are your choice, are like a dream. You feel pieces of yourself sacrificed for the ‘successes’ you demonstrate. Your childlike curiosity stays, but the hope and the optimism has long passed: you are more mature than that. The world is work. The world is yours. Nothing is yours. You hide the weed in the makeup drawer, and you only open the drawer to smoke. You begin to distrust, and find disgust, in institutions, in the adult routine, in the world you were born into. What to do, what to do. Option 1: end it all. Option 2: wait to see what else the world can offer. Obviously, Option 2 is the way to go, but it’s uncertain, the fine print keeping you to obligations that were placed on you before you could consent to them. When she responds negatively to your distress, you hide it. When you can sense her slight homophobic and racist beliefs, you challenge them. The futile gesture is rarely repeated. When she calls you lazy, you sleep even more to aggravate her. When it is time for you leave, both of you are scared. You are more excited. Finally, a life that is your own. You learn, you make mistakes, you cry. You are never alone, but you often feel your lone heart pulse painfully, working as hard as it can to provide for yourself. It isn’t enough. Evolution decided that for you. You look longer at the women than you do the men. What evolutionary mistake is this? When she looks back you blush, but you are ecstatic. She is soft, you are eager. Sometimes you wake, suddenly and afraid, and find it hard to believe she is next to you. Sometimes you remember to call her, usually on Sundays. You talk airily, about school, about her. You almost dread talking to her, for some guilty reason you can’t place. Talking to her means lying. It means trying to make her happy. Your first job grants you more autonomy, but less choice. A home is bought, a ring is worn. You call her more often, and you ask her to come live with you, she is lonely, she is old. It is traditional for you to provide for her now, as she had for you. She is as stubborn as a child, complaining that the temperature is set so cold she’ll catch pneumonia. You hold her hand, and you know what you have always known. That she gave you you. You are hers, for as long as the earth rotates the sun.