Story by Aisha Zubair

“I was a difficult child,” that’s often what I say to excuse everything. To excuse it to myself, my friends, my partner, and now a therapist. Here in her office, I glance at her fish tank as she, Dr. Andrea, tends to another client outside. The impending therapy session, driven by fear rather than willingness, has finally overcome my laziness. Maybe, just maybe this lady with fake red hair and a hilariously gigantic fish tank with one fish will solve my issue.  

The tank reminded me that when I was about five or four I had a guppy, in a tiny bowl, living a pathetically confined life. I loved that fish and would pretend to be its mother. My own mother said it was a grotesque color of red mixed with brown, but I thought it was mesmerizing. When I came back from school it was lying dead on the ground. Uma said it must’ve felt confined and jumped out. At that moment I could see what she saw, it truly was a poor little ugly fish. 

Now, I feel like that fish—confined, suffocated, yearning for freedom. Dr. Andrea returns just as I consider scooping out her fish and setting it free.

“So you’re going to be a mother. How exciting. Maybe this is a good time to discuss your own mother or how you feel about motherhood,” she says with a smile.

“You mean to discuss our mother-daughter relationship,” I say, still looking at the fish.

“Well, I did say motherhood, but sure.” I think for a second. 

“I feel like one can’t exist without the other when you’re a daughter. Motherhood engulfs daughterhood; the two need each other to maintain some sort of homeostasis.” She looks at me, prompting me to continue. I sigh.

“My mother tried her best. I was a difficult child.”

“I’m sorry but I don’t believe that,” she interrupts. “A child is just a child. They do not have the skills to purposely give their parents a hard time.”

I’m taken aback. No one has challenged my narrative before. Whenever I spoke about my mother and I’s relationship they seemed upset, pitiful even, yet as soon as I said that line they seemed to understand. Nod even, as if saying that yes I suppose that makes sense. Or even, in that case, that excuses everything.  But Dr. Andrea challenges this, making me confused. I don’t like it.

“Well, you didn’t know me as a child,” I retort.

“You’re right. So tell me, what heinous crimes did you commit? How does it compare to what you’ve told me about your mother and how she treated you?” Her tone is more curious than confrontational, leaving me to wonder if she’s on my side or against me. For a second I have a sickening feeling that my mother put her up to this. Don’t be absurd.

I hesitate for a second, then say, 

“I would always miss my train back from practice as it was out of the city. My mother had to come get me although she had so much to do.”

I don’t tell her about the dread on those days or the yelling during the ride back, then more of it back home. I think for a minute about how I would be so upset when I missed the train as I missed its comfort, it cradling me and rocking me back and forth in its chair. How come I always missed the last one, why could I never catch it, never keep up, why wouldn’t it stop for me?

“How old were you?”

“Eight,” I lied. I was six.

“That’s too young to be taking the train alone. And unless you were doing it on purpose, it doesn’t mean you were difficult.”

“I would forget my training around people. Important people, my mother wanted me to act right around,” I confess, feeling nauseous again. Unsure if it was the baby or just me.

Dr. Andrea knits her brows together. “Training? What do you mean by that?” She writes something down, and I want to throw her writing pad out the window.

“You know, training. How to sit in front of adults, how to eat, what to say. I would forget it,” I explain, anxious.

“I see. And are you a dog? Or perhaps a prized pig at a fair?” I laugh, though she doesn’t understand. Sometimes I felt like a bad dog, a mad dog, but I’m not. I’m not a bad dog; I don’t bite. I shake my head.

“I’m not a dog at all. I’m a person, a girl. I was a girl.” I don’t know why I said that last part. 

“No, you were just a child, a baby. And you didn’t deserve that. I want you to be honest with me right now because I know you usually aren’t. Do you think your child will be difficult?”

“Of course not, because I will not be a difficult mother.” I realize now what I had never wanted to admit before. 

I wanted this child despite my fears, I wanted to love and be loved but more dearly I wanted to give the love I never had. Despite being my mother’s daughter, I am not her. This child will not be loved and cared for because of a mother who had a mother who did, but because of one who didn’t and understands the absence of it. It haunts all of us daughters like a ghost child, and when you remove its sheet you will see that this haunting child who will be put to rest from love and acceptance is them. 

Dr. Andrea smiles at me. “You see, I too was afraid of being like my mother when I first had my baby girl. I promise you by coming here and having these worries you are ending the cycle, you won’t be like her. Everyone tells you how hard it is to be a mother, but nobody warns you of the collateral damage being a daughter brings. You weren’t a bad dog or a difficult child. You were just a child, and I’m sorry you couldn’t be one.”

“I’m sorry about your mother,” She says.

“And I’m sorry about yours,” I say back, our session is over.