In the early years, I cherished the respect and admiration my kids bestowed upon me; they called me 'Danny’s mam,' making me feel like a genuine adult. Yet, as they grew, so did their awareness of my shortcomings. I didn't instruct them to call me Justine; it naturally evolved as they realized my facade of responsibility was just that—a mask for my own confusion and uncertainty.
The shift from being 'Mrs. D' to 'Justine' was filled with a bittersweet recognition of my children's growing independence, and with it, my own realization of inadequacy. It seems my children, once so dependent on my guidance, now look at me with knowing smiles, reminding me of my struggle to stay relatable in their teenage world.
Collection
[
|
...
]