Something happened that morning which left Ibikunle upset. Her mother had woken her up to go to church. She told her she was tired — completely drained from the day before. Her mother said she didn’t care. That cooking and chores were Ibikunle’s responsibility. She had done the same thing when Ibikunle and her siblings were much younger, and now it was their turn to take care of her.

Ibikunle had spent nearly three hours making breakfast, then gone to the market and walked under the scorching sun before finding what she needed — three bags of yarn for her mother’s next crochet order. By the time she got home, it was time to cook lunch. Even then, she had told her grandmother she had a headache and that she felt sleepy. She was also on her period. But she still managed to cook amala and efo. After that, she fed the chickens, did a few other chores around the house, took a long shower, and finally went to bed. But her mother didn’t care about her exhaustion.

She had seen a trend on X about what she was experiencing. People said it was a mentality so deeply ingrained in parents it made them believe their children owe them their lives. Ibikunle knew she was supposed to help out, which was why she had done everything she did the day before, despite her fatigue. But to be met with no empathy? It was maddening.

There was one time her mother had threatened to stop supporting her financially because she had called her out for being too bossy. Her mother often said she regretted christening her “Ibikunle” — her father’s middle name, who died two days after she was born. She said Ibikunle behaved like a man, took up space like a man. She said Ibikunle, who was her last child, was the only one of her four daughters who disrespected her. But the truth was, Ibikunle had simply made it her life’s job to stand up to her — especially when she crossed the line.

Ibikunle worked so hard, trying to secure a good job. Not having one yet was the only reason she still watched her mouth, still measured her words, still held back a little from saying everything she wanted to say.

But the moment she got a good job, she would leave. She would be out of there.

Done.

***

“That’s a lot, Ibikunle. It makes sense that you were exhausted — physically and emotionally. Desiring a compassionate, respectful relationship with your mother isn’t wrong. What you’re describing… it’s something I hear often. You did a lot that day, even though you weren’t feeling well. And still, there was no understanding, that can feel unfair.”

Ibikunle dabbed her eyes with a brown handkerchief. She traced the wool with her fingers, her gaze fixated on the room’s humidifier. It was her fifth therapy session, and she was recounting what had happened on that Sunday.

She had gotten two remote jobs as a Virtual Assistant, and she earned in dollars. The first thing she did with her income was to get an apartment and book therapy sessions. She moved out and hadn’t been home in six months.

“Your mum may have thought she was instilling discipline,” her therapist said, “but in reality, she ignored that you are a person too, not just someone there to meet her expectations. Being a parent doesn’t mean your children owe you everything. You deserve to live without carrying guilt.”

Ibikunle laughed and lifted her eyes to the plaster ceiling where a blue ceiling fan spun slowly. Her eyes followed its circular motion before she redirected her gaze at the therapist, who was seated on a blue armchair about five feet in front of her. The room was decorated in calming shades of blue and cream. The combination made her feel safe.

“Tell that to my mother. Do you have kids?” Ibikunle asked.
“We are not here to talk about me,” her therapist responded gently, her voice hypnotizing as always. Ibikunle nodded and squeezed the handkerchief in her palm.
“You’re also smart to realize that getting a job is your ticket out. It’s not about the money — it’s about having the power to say no without fear.”

The alarm beeped. Three hours had passed. Ibikunle blinked and sighed. She listened as her therapist wrapped up the session.
“See you next Tuesday. Have a great week.”

Ibikunle walked to the door and was about to open it when that familiar, hypnotizing voice called out to her. “I have three kids,” the therapist said quietly. “Trying to break the cycle isn’t easy, but you’re doing it. And one day, if you decide to have children, they will benefit from the work you’re doing now. You will be the kind of parent who listens, who sees them, who loves them without conditions.”
Ibikunle’s mouth quivered. She smiled and dabbed her eyes again. She nodded vigorously, “Thank you.” She closed the door behind her. Her phone beeped.

It was a message from her mother, asking if she would at least come home for Christmas.