Brown daughters inherit their mothers as damaged commodities. Not as something to derive love and satisfaction from, but as something to fix. We battle against their fears and insecurities with them, alongside our own. It completely exhausts us, and yet there is no winning.

No amount of love we invest into them can undo the levels of trauma they have already undergone. We arrive too late into their lives.

And the saddest part is that in a bid to save our mothers, some of us inherit their traumas along with their gold. Their battles stay with us long after they have gone. We spend the rest of our lives being angry and frustrated on their behalf, over the pain we could never avert.