My mom repeats it like a curse,
like a disgusting spell —
“I hope you have a daughter just like you.”
I cried for nights,
for months,
feeling worthless,
feeling like I’d failed my mother.
But sometimes now, I wonder —
hell, if I had a daughter like me,
I’d be so damn proud of her.
I hope I have a daughter just like me.
I hope she fights for her dreams like I do.
I hope she’s ready to fight —
her parents, society, the world, even fate —
for what she believes in.
I hope she’s just like me,
the kind who could watch the world burn
if that’s what her dream costs.
I hope she’s as kind as me,
as selfless as me,
as selfish as me.
I hope she has my eyes —
but without the tears.
Without the dark circles.
Then they’ll be the prettiest eyes I know.
I hope my daughter is just like me.
Just as strong.
Just as kind.
Just as imperfect.
But maybe… a little more daring.