Image Source: Engin Akyurt via Pexels

Her name was Miracle and she was beautiful. But she wasn’t actually a miracle. She was just another kid from a broken home. Her mother, called her Miracle, because she needed hope in her life. She needed her daughter to be “the fix”.

It wasn’t easy for your whole purpose in life to be a bandage for someone else’s bleeding wound. And there wasn’t a second of her life where her mother didn’t let her know it. Somehow it would have been better to have not known. Then she could have at least pretended she was her own person.

She wouldn’t have the weight of someone else’s expectations hanging over her for all of eternity. Because it was hard. Her life wasn’t her own. Her mistakes were though. No one else jumped around trying to claim those. But her victories, they were owned by her mother.

She’d tried to break away before. She had literally ran away. It was the closest she’d ever had to freedom. But she wasn’t completely free because she felt obligated to go back. Her mother wouldn’t cope without her. Her mother needed her help. This was Miracle’s job. She was the care giver and the caretaker.

Miracle wanted to retire. She was probably the only person in the world that didn’t want to be special.

xx woeful writes xx

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