Trigger warning: another memory of my dear mother ---- When I was 12 years old, my mother gave me a present that would have made me who I am today- a scrapbook. It was wire-o binded, square, and big. mom said that I can write, draw, or paste anything on it because it was mine. Along with the scrapbook, was a pink card that was delicately embossed with floral illustrations and it smelled like roses. The card did not mention birthday or any occasion, but I knew it was ‘daughter-themed’ and there was a long poem written on the card that left no room for interpretation: daughters, it said, existed solely to fulfill their mothers' unfulfilled dreams." Then on the bottom page my mom just wrote “I love you, Ate. Love, Mama" I was very happy when I got that present, but immediately after reading the poem, I felt a gentle pressure on me. How ironic was it for my mother to give me something I can call my own, and at the same time, imply that I must be the perfect version of her. S