It's an easy line to cross without noticing, because it happens gradually and you don't want to notice. You and your mother used to finish one another's thoughts. Perhaps not out loud, but believing that you were hiding your deepest selves--your longings and secrets-- you always kept each other in your sights. You, because she was strict and fearful, and you needed to explore and experiment. She, because she was private and protective to the extreme.
You can't say when you began to fill in the holes of her thoughts. You can't remember when the holes appeared or when they expanded or when they began to alarm you. Different from the vagueness that used to crop up whenever you asked her a question she didn't want to answer. "You don't want to know," she'd say, brushing you away with the sweep of her hand, commanding you not to want what you clearly wanted. Driving you back into yourself, both in your separate corners.
You remember, though, when you realized that you were covering for her, speaking for her because she could no longer speak for herself. It was a lifetime later. You were in an elevator, you, your mother, your silent father, and the social worker. You remember going down, although you were probably going up to the examination room. A small cage. Your parents standing together, you behind them, the social worker facing your little family, her back to the closed door, trying to engage your mother in conversation. You spoke over your mother's head, filling in when she hesitated, helping her. You were just helping. The social worker shot you a stern look, shook her head. You stopped what you hadn't known you were doing or what your mother was no longer doing until that moment.
