The Sandwich Generation

Growing up, I never understood the questions. Where are you? What time will you be home? Did you arrive safely? Back then, it felt suffocating. I watched my cousins run free, summer sun on their faces, while I stayed home. an only child learning patience before I ever learned meaning. I thought my parents were strict. I thought they worried too much. Then I became a parent. And suddenly, everything made sense. Concern wasn’t control. It was love, speaking in reminders, in curfews, in waiting up late just to hear the sound of a door closing safely. Time moved forward. I grew older. My daughter grew older. And quietly... so did my parents. If before I thought they needed me, now I realize I need them more. I can’t get through a day without checking in. Did you guys eat already? Did you sleep well? What time will you be home? Who’s with you? Nowadays, a message as simple as “Ingat, anak” stops the world for a moment. Because even though I am a mother now, I am still someone’s child. And no amount of time, no title, no season of life will ever change that. I am loved. And I love being loved by these two people. So I pray, day and night for more mornings, more nights, more short messages filled with quiet care and familiar love. I now parent my daughter. And I parent my parents, too. Standing in the middle between who I came from and who I am raising. They call it the sandwich generation. I call it love, being passed down question by question, message by message, heart to heart.

• Growingup
• Oldparents
• Familymatters