Mama never was a very good mother, but it wasn't her fault. She was bipolar, and mentally ill...  but with me being the eldest, I had to take care of my siblings. She loved us, she did. We were weeds growing in a concrete garden, but to her we were flowers. We brought her joy. She loved is dearly, you could tell. After the death of our father, she died inside. But, deep down I know. That she was the flower, and we her children, the sun. I'm pretty sure without us there, she would have felt no reason to live.

So really, she was the flower, growing in the concrete garden of her mind.

Metaphor used; flower in a concrete garden