I am my mother’s daughter, and I aspire to be the profound version of her. The woman who reads, who exercises self-control, who practices kindness, who never imposes- she keeps her word. She loves her many friends, she pleas the fifth, she sympathizes and has compassion. She speaks her mind, keeps her cards close to her chest, chooses the right time, she is analytical.
She drinks her porridge cold, and lives in the present. She is frugal, lives within her means, is grateful and contented with what she has; she loves her space and craves conversation all at once. She has an impeccable memory, especially with numbers. She gives no unsolicited advice, she listens (not always) and dispenses words of wisdom.
I am my father’s daughter. He doesn’t neglect or abandon family but doesn’t always want to be around them. He gives only what he can afford, hates to confront but will find a way to deal with it. He knows how to maintain boundaries but needs to know how to ask for help. He is stubborn, oh so stubborn.
I have his physique and his eyes; my mother’s toes, voice and walk, but I am also me, totally and purely me.