I used to take on my mother’s irritation like it was my job. Every time she sighed at something my dad did—or didn’t do—I felt it in my bones. I’d try to fix it. Make her laugh. Be extra helpful. Play peacemaker between two adults who made choices I had no say in.

For a long time, I mistook that role for love. Or maybe survival. If she was upset, I had to fix it. If he wasn’t what she needed, I’d try to be. I made myself small, thoughtful, easy. I grew up thinking that’s just what daughters do.

But here’s the thing—somewhere along the way, she gave me advice. Real advice. Something like, “If you marry someone you don’t like, that’s on you. Fix it.”

So I did. I fixed it.

I got out of a relationship that wasn’t right. One that drained me, manipulated me, shrank me. I chose myself, my sanity, my peace. I walked away. It was brutal. It was lonely. It was necessary.

And while I was rebuilding my life from scratch, she kept doing what she always did: complaining. Picking at my dad. Letting her irritations spill into every room like smoke from a fire she refuses to put out.

And suddenly, I wasn’t just done with him—I was done trying to emotionally babysit her.

Because now I see it for what it is: a double standard.

She told me to take care of it. But she hasn’t. And now I’m the one who gets annoyed. Because you can’t hand your daughter a blueprint for a house you refuse to build. You can’t preach independence while modeling resentment in a loop.

I don’t want to live like that. I won’t.

This isn’t about being ungrateful or disrespectful. This is about boundaries. About finally realizing it’s not my job to absorb her regrets. She made her choices. I made mine.

And the truth is: I don’t want to become her. I love her—but I want more for myself than chronic disappointment dressed up as duty. I want peace that doesn’t come with a price tag.

So I’m stepping back. Not in anger, but in clarity. She doesn’t have to change—but I do. I already have.