Writing: ‘My Loves’ by Brisa Martinez

In a Mexican household being the oldest daughter means you're the second mom. Growing up I remember being held accountable for everything my sisters did. Very vividly I recall laying in my mom's room coloring in a picture. I heard my dad yell for me and hastily ran to the living room.

Dad: Mira que están haciendo tus hermanas.

I look over to find my two little sisters coloring on the walls. At the time I was still quite confused on what that had to do with me.

Me: Están coloreando las paredes.

Dad: ¡No estoy ciego Brisa!

I remained silent and backed away a bit.

Dad: ¿Dónde estabas? ¿Por qué no estás cuidando a tus hermanas? Me vas a limpiar todas las paredes de estas casa y no quiero ninguna mancha.

Me: Pero yo no hice nada.

At this point there are tears rolling down my cheeks.

Dad: ¡No me importa! ¡Me limpias las paredes ahora mismo!

I looked over to my mom, who's sitting down at the dinner table next to him. She gives a sympathetic look before letting out a sigh. I don’t exactly remember what happened, just that there was a lot of yelling. My mom told me and my sisters to go to our room. I could hear my mom telling him off for blaming everything on me and him saying I had to learn responsibility. It went on for a while before my mom just walked away and gave up. I was still
blamed for stuff my sisters did, but at least my mom was sympathetic. At least I got “I’m sorry hija.” and could get candy when we went to the store. It didn’t matter that I had to wash walls, and clean messes I didn’t make. At least my mom knew it wasn’t my fault. But it wasn’t enough.

I hated it. I didn’t want to be the oldest daughter, I didn’t want to be responsible for everything. I didn’t want to be blamed for everything they did. Every tantrum, every mess, and every misbehavior they did, I got blamed. I shouldn’t like them. I should blame them for all the punishments I got. I should resent them. But I never did. And trust me I tried. It would’ve been so much easier if I could just blame them. Have someone to blame. But I never did hate them.

I love them so much. When I got home from school it was my sisters who asked me how my day was and they would just listen attentively. They would constantly point out the unfairness in the way my parents raise us. They would try to do the best to make me feel love. I used to spend my mornings making them breakfast and getting their clothes ready. I would get home, serve them lunch and later get them into bed. But then when I got into high school, I didn’t have time to be there for them. As much as I hate to admit it, I missed it.

I missed waking up early and seeing them stuff their faces with food. Walking home with them and listening to them talk about their day. Brushing their hair, signing their field trip papers, and making their lunches. Now instead I get home at 8 and only have enough time to listen to a brief recap of their day before going to bed. I’ve been so focused on school I can’t
be there for them so much. And I hate it. I didn’t know one could be so happy just caring for someone else. The way the second oldest slaps people when she laughs. How her eyes light up looking at the moon. Or how the youngest gets shy when people praise her. She’s the type to stay up all night studying for tests despite being encouraged to sleep.

I finally understand parents who just want to talk about their kids all the time. That’s all I ever do. I talk about their achievements, the things they hate, they love, their habits. I’m not even their mom, but they feel like my children. I understand the joy of being a mom. It’s pure happiness that simply runs through your body by just seeing them smile.