When I see you,
disgust crosses my mind
before any semblance of fondness could ever flit across my heart.
You corrupted the upbringing of two generations of
daughters with your frigid hands and glass hearts.
You could not find a way to heal your own wounds,
so you bled on us,
perhaps thinking our likeness would bring you comfort.
Did you know your daughter took 47 years to
finally learn how to
suture the gaping wounds you left her with?
Did you know at the age of eight,
I believed I was a horrible child and a disappointment?
That I had become so familiar with the night time routine of hushed apologies and tears at bedtime from a mother just as damaged as the daughter she was creating?
How I learned to walk on eggshells before I could walk at all,
careful not to disturb the angry monster that was my mother?
How I came to know her by the sound of her footsteps
instead of the lullabies she would sing me to sleep with?
How I would sob every night until I was choking on my own sorrow,
gasping for air,
desperately praying for just a sliver of change.
How her mood swings were a rollercoaster
that never failed to give me whiplash?
But, I know better than to seek answers from you.
Because I know you don’t have them.
You don’t care enough to.
You never have,
never will.
Just like how an apology
is a concept as foreign to you as kindness.
Despite this,
my mother has forgiven you.
It’s difficult to forgive someone for a nonexistent apology,
but somehow she did it a long time ago,
yet another one of the infinite reasons why she is a better person than you could ever be,
not to mention she had the
basic restraint to never lay a hand on her daughter unlike you.
That was something you never seemed to have the brains to figure out,
which is quite ironic considering your constant labeling of my mother as unintelligent.
You live your privileged, sheltered life in your
lavish house on the golf course.
Never suffering any consequences for your actions.
Never sparing a single second
for self-reflection.
You believe gifting me a picture frame at Christmas
and taking me to breakfast for my birthday
can erase the decades of damage you’ve caused.
You think I’ll forget the pain that runs through my veins which you transfused.
You think I’ll let you make a home in my heart.
Well, you are sadly mistaken,
because if one thing is certain,
it’s that
I could never,
and will never
love
you.
--Alison R., 9th-12th Grade