Monsters in the Mirror: My Mother’s Shadow

“You’re a monster, Mom! People like you shouldn’t have kids!”

My voice ricocheted off the kitchen walls, trembling and hoarse, but I couldn’t stop. My mother’s hands were still curled around my broken phone, her knuckles white, her jaw clenched. She looked at me like I was a stranger, like she couldn’t recognize the teenager she’d raised in this cramped, humid apartment above Mr. Singh’s deli in Dayton, Ohio.

“Jessica, I told you—if I ever caught you sneaking out again—”

I cut her off, tears burning my cheeks. “You don’t even care where I go! You only care about what the neighbors will think! You never listen—never!”

She slammed my phone onto the counter. “You think I want to do this? You think I like being the bad guy?”

I don’t remember running to my room, but I remember the slam of the door, the way the walls shook. I remember collapsing onto my bed, the sound of her muffled sobs through the thin drywall, and the way my own anger tasted—metallic, bitter, and sharp. I’d always thought my mother was invincible. I’d never realized she was just as breakable as me.

My name is Jessica Carter. I’m seventeen, and I’m terrified that the worst parts of my mother live inside me.

We’d moved to Dayton when I was five, after Dad left. Mom never talked about him, only ever calling him “the mistake I’ll never repeat.” She worked two jobs—morning shifts at the hospital cafeteria, evenings cleaning offices downtown. When she wasn’t working, she was exhausted, her eyes ringed with shadow, her hands perpetually red from bleach and soap. She loved me, I know she did, but her love was sharp-edged and conditional: good grades, clean room, no boys, no trouble.

I tried to be perfect for her. Honor roll, track team, church youth group. But perfect was never enough. The rules kept shifting, her moods unpredictable. Some days, she made pancakes and laughed at my TikToks. Other days, she’d scream about unwashed dishes and how I was “turning out just like him.”

It was after I met Tyler at a friend’s party that everything changed. Tyler was wild and bright, with a battered skateboard and a laugh that made me feel real. He listened when I talked about wanting to leave Dayton, about writing, about how afraid I was of becoming invisible. He kissed me behind the bleachers and told me I could be anything.

My mom hated him before she even met him. “He’s just like your father,” she snapped, when she read our texts. “He’ll ruin you.” She grounded me, but I snuck out anyway, my heart pounding as I ran down the fire escape and into Tyler’s arms. For the first time, freedom tasted sweeter than fear.

That night, when she found out, was the night I called her a monster.

The next morning, she didn’t speak to me. She left for work without a word, her eyes puffy and red. I sat alone in the kitchen, the silence roaring, and tried to piece together what I’d done. I hated her for controlling me, for never trusting me, but I hated myself more for needing her so badly.

After school, I found her sitting on the fire escape, a cigarette trembling between her fingers. She’d promised me—promised herself—she’d quit, but the smoke curled around her like armor.

“You think I’m a monster, huh?” she said, staring at the traffic below.

I sat beside her, knees pulled to my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, hating how small my voice sounded.

She laughed, but it was brittle. “My mother called me the same thing. When I told her I was pregnant with you, she said I’d ruin your life.”

I looked at her, really looked, and for the first time saw how young she still was. She’d had me at nineteen, given up college, moved here with a man who promised forever and left before my first birthday. I remembered her working double shifts, skipping meals so I could eat, patching my jeans because new ones were too expensive.

“Why do you do it?” I asked. “Why are you so… angry?”

She exhaled, the smoke trembling. “Because I’m scared, Jess. Scared you’ll make my mistakes. Scared you’ll end up stuck, like me. Nobody ever taught me how to be a mother. I’m just… trying not to drown.”

I wanted to tell her I understood, but I didn’t. Not really. All I knew was that I was tired of fighting, tired of feeling like love was something we had to earn.

The weeks passed in uneasy truce. I kept my head down, focused on school. Tyler and I drifted apart—too much drama, he said. Mom tried to cook more, asked about my classes. Some nights, she sat at the table, sorting bills and crying quietly, thinking I couldn’t hear.

One Saturday, I found her old yearbook in a box in the closet. There she was—smiling, hair bright, eyes hopeful. She looked nothing like the woman I knew. I traced her face with my finger and wondered what had happened to her dreams. Were they still buried somewhere inside her, or had they all been sacrificed for me?

On my eighteenth birthday, she handed me a box. Inside was a battered journal. “I used to write, too,” she said quietly. “Before everything got so… hard. Maybe you’ll find your way out.”

For the first time, I hugged her. Really hugged her. She sobbed into my shoulder, and I realized we were both just girls, trying to survive inside the cages we’d inherited.

We still fight. We probably always will. But now, when I see her reflection in the kitchen window, I see past the monster I’d imagined. I see the girl she used to be—and maybe, just maybe, the woman I’m allowed to become.

Is it possible to forgive someone for loving you the only way they know how? Or will I always be afraid I’ll turn into her, too?