I won’t forever pull at your skirt, I won’t forever hold your hand, I won’t always hide behind you. That “forever” doesn’t exist, every childhood has an expiration date, mine too. It gets spoiled by something called growing up. You cannot slow it down, nor can you stop it; the only thing you can do is surrender to it. You can value the days that are left, while nostalgically remembering those that have already flown away. Sort them into the happy ones and the less happy, the ones with fewer and the ones with more tears, the ones where you played the card of “a better tomorrow.” You can admire them, regret them, mourn them. But you cannot live them again. You cannot change them, nor can you change me. You are not a traveler through time, only a mere mortal, who doesn’t always see her mistakes in time. You are just a human who protects herself while blaming others. So tell me, if you could turn back time and raise me once more, what would you change? My name or your beliefs? Would you turn the hours spent cleaning the house into children’s tea parties? Would you put your tiredness aside and, for once, talk to me? If I give you another chance, would you truly hear me? Or would you once again look at me as a replica of yourself, as a stunt double you throw into the fire whenever you don’t have enough energy to do something? You can not turn back time, neither can I. And even if I could, I won’t. Out of principle, out of fear or maybe this time it’s me who has no energy. Maybe I have no energy for life, at least not for the one you expect of me. So once more, for the very last time, I beg you. I beg you to let me go, without heavy words, without guilt laid upon me. Let me, just once, see that caring, motherly face.