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I found it by accident…
her little secret diary
My 12-year-old young helper.
Quiet, gentle. The one that goes with my kids to school every morning and they all come back together every afternoon.
The one everyone thinks is “fine” because she dresses well, eats well, and even goes to school like my children.
But that morning, while arranging her bed, her book slipped out. I didn’t even plan to read it, but when I picked it up, the first line that caught my eye made my chest tighten.
“Mom, why did you keep me out?”
I, sat down…
This girl… this same girl that wakes up early to sweep, helps bathe my kids, walks them to school, brings them home, plays with them, laughs with them… this same girl has been carrying a pain none of us ever saw.
I kept reading.
She wrote things no 12-year-old should ever have to think about:
“Mommy, I want to feel your love. Every day, I want to be in your arms. But I’m in another home.”
She even wrote about the school runs.
She said:
“When we go to school, I pretend I’m fine. But sometimes I look at other mothers holding their daughters’ hands, and I wonder… why can’t I have that too?”
It broke me.
She said we treat her well.
She said she eats, she is safe, she learns, she is not shouted at unnecessarily—but she still feels like she is living someone else’s life.
Because in the end, no matter how kind I am to her, I am not her mother.
She wrote:
“Aunty is good to me… but I’m still not free. I I can’t cry in her room. I can’t tell her everything I feel. I try to be okay all the time, I respect her, but I still want my own mommy.”
She talked about the vacuum.
That empty space in her chest that kindness cannot fill.
She wrote about watching mothers and daughters in the park, in school, in church, on TV… and wondering what her own mother’s hug feels like.
What her mother’s voice sounds like when she is soft.
If she ever thinks about her.
If she ever regrets giving her out.
She wrote dreams she has—simple dreams—but she feels she cannot pursue them freely because “I am in another woman’s house. I have to behave.”
And the last line… that line sat on me for hours:
“Mom, I don’t hate you. I just want to know why you didn’t raise me yourself.”
That moment, everything made sense.
The way she sometimes goes quiet.
The way she watches families from the corner of her eyes.
The way she hesitates before speaking.
The way she stiffens if someone raises their voice.
The way she tries so hard to be “useful” so no one will send her away.
People think being a young helper is just about chores.
But sometimes, it is a child carrying adult responsibilities, while still craving the childhood she never got.
And that morning, holding her little book, I realised she isn’t just “helping.”
She’s a girl—only 12—still longing for the mother she wishes raised her. #copied #blessed #storytelling #viral #fypシ゚viralシfypシ゚viralシalシ #fypシ゚viralシfypシ゚
I found it by accident…
her little secret diary
My 12-year-old young helper.
Quiet, gentle. The one that goes with my kids to school every morning and they all come back together every afternoon.
The one everyone thinks is “fine” because she dresses well, eats well, and even goes to school like my children.
But that morning, while arranging her bed, her book slipped out. I didn’t even plan to read it, but when I picked it up, the first line that caught my eye made my chest tighten.
“Mom, why did you keep me out?”
I, sat down…
This girl… this same girl that wakes up early to sweep, helps bathe my kids, walks them to school, brings them home, plays with them, laughs with them… this same girl has been carrying a pain none of us ever saw.
I kept reading.
She wrote things no 12-year-old should ever have to think about:
“Mommy, I want to feel your love. Every day, I want to be in your arms. But I’m in another home.”
She even wrote about the school runs.
She said:
“When we go to school, I pretend I’m fine. But sometimes I look at other mothers holding their daughters’ hands, and I wonder… why can’t I have that too?”
It broke me.
She said we treat her well.
She said she eats, she is safe, she learns, she is not shouted at unnecessarily—but she still feels like she is living someone else’s life.
Because in the end, no matter how kind I am to her, I am not her mother.
She wrote:
“Aunty is good to me… but I’m still not free. I I can’t cry in her room. I can’t tell her everything I feel. I try to be okay all the time, I respect her, but I still want my own mommy.”
She talked about the vacuum.
That empty space in her chest that kindness cannot fill.
She wrote about watching mothers and daughters in the park, in school, in church, on TV… and wondering what her own mother’s hug feels like.
What her mother’s voice sounds like when she is soft.
If she ever thinks about her.
If she ever regrets giving her out.
She wrote dreams she has—simple dreams—but she feels she cannot pursue them freely because “I am in another woman’s house. I have to behave.”
And the last line… that line sat on me for hours:
“Mom, I don’t hate you. I just want to know why you didn’t raise me yourself.”
That moment, everything made sense.
The way she sometimes goes quiet.
The way she watches families from the corner of her eyes.
The way she hesitates before speaking.
The way she stiffens if someone raises their voice.
The way she tries so hard to be “useful” so no one will send her away.
People think being a young helper is just about chores.
But sometimes, it is a child carrying adult responsibilities, while still craving the childhood she never got.
And that morning, holding her little book, I realised she isn’t just “helping.”
She’s a girl—only 12—still longing for the mother she wishes raised her. #copied #blessed #storytelling #viral #fypシ゚viralシfypシ゚viralシalシ #fypシ゚viralシfypシ゚
