What About Me?

An Interview With the Elder Daughter Who Had to Become Everyone

Interviewer: You said this isn’t about architecture or poetry today. So… what is it about?

Her: It’s about being the eldest daughter in a house that doesn’t see you. It’s about missing someone so much that your bones ache with the absence. It’s about my mom. She used to treat me like I was a princess, not because I was spoiled but because I was hers. Her love wasn’t measured, it just flowed. She knew everything without me saying a word. My fake smiles. My hidden hurts. My silences. And now that she’s gone, no one hears me anymore.

Interviewer: That sounds lonely. What changed when she passed away?

Her: Everything. When she died, I didn’t just lose my mother I lost my only shield. Since then, I’ve tried becoming what she was for everyone: the glue, the listener, the caretaker. I became the therapist, the sister, the helper, the fixer. But nobody became that for me.

Interviewer: And when you’re hurting?

Her: They say they’re hurting too. I don’t doubt they love me… but not the way a mother loves. Not that unconditional, drop-everything kind of love. I get sick? They say, “We’re all tired.” I get hurt? “You never ask how we are.” When I break down? It’s “Stop being dramatic.” I start to cry, they roll their eyes. It’s like… my pain has to go through a filter before it’s valid.

Interviewer: But when someone else in the family is hurting?

Her: Then it’s red alert. My younger sister catches a cold, and the house moves like a military mission. “Let’s take her to the doctor. What does she want to eat?” And honestly, I’m not jealous. But when I get a fever, it’s “You’re not the only one sick.” I remember being there for them holding them through their storms but when it’s my turn, they say I’m selfish for expecting the same.

Interviewer: Have you tried talking to them?

Her: I have. They either get defensive or dismiss it as mood swings. It’s like… if you’re the strong one, people forget you’re human. They forget you bleed too. I scream in silence now. Because every time I speak up, I’m told I’m too much. Too emotional. Too sensitive. But I’m not acting. I’m exhausted. I’m barely holding on.

Interviewer: Do you ever think of giving up?

Her: Yes. But I don’t want to. I want to live. I want to be seen. I’m just tired of carrying a house on my shoulders and still being called dramatic when I ask for water.

Interviewer: What do you wish someone would say to you right now?

Her: “I see you.” Not as a helper. Not as the strong one. But as someone who’s grieving, tired, breaking, surviving. I wish someone would sit beside me not to fix me but just to say, “You don’t have to carry it all today. Let me carry some of it.”

Interviewer: And your final message?

Her: To every eldest daughter out there… Who became the mom after the mom left. Who gave more than she had. Who still finds strength even when it’s gone. I see you. I am you. And no, you’re not selfish for needing love. You’re human. And that’s not a crime.

The interview ends. She leaves quietly. Not for drama. But because no one really notices when she stays.