Dear Mom.

When I was “home” last, you were showing my brother your new guitar and ignoring me. He’s always considered himself the black sheep of the family, as if there’s something romantically tragic about it. But even he can’t deny how far in the shadows you’ve shoved me.

At our last family gathering, if I rose up into the air and looked down on us, I’d see a room full of people, laughing and playing, eating and joking, except one still corner of the room. I’m frozen on the couch, chin in hand, watching the love twist around and swallow everyone up, nervously darting around me, not even a narrow miss.

Dear Mom.

Remember that summer I came back from freshman year of college? I expected to find my bed in the same place. You didn’t even tell me to my face. I had never stood up for myself to you, until that day. I screamed it into your voicemail, because you were screening your calls. How could you turn your own daughter out? I had nowhere to go. I abandoned your church and they demanded you abandon me. You dropped me like I was poison.

Dear Mom.

Once, you asked me to come and commemorate Jesus’ resurrection. You saw it as a glimmer of hope. I walked in and they all turned their eyes away, even you. I said hello, and you acted like I was dead. Dad chastised you and you turned back to me, a forced, tight smile on your lips, spitting out hello as if it was the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do. Was it hard to be so cold to your own daughter, or was it harder to have all of your friends see you?

Dear Mom.

Last year, Grandma told you she would allow me to say goodbye to her. Cancer comes for the Jehovah’s Witnesses, just like everyone else. After ten years of nothing, she allowed me five minutes. Pained eyes and a weak, old voice whispered that I broke her heart when I left the truth – that I have to come back. Then she was gone. You broke down in sobs at her memorial. You clung to me, guilt wrapping us together – you have to come back, you said. I love you. You seemed so fragile. I never thought of myself as the strong one, before.

Dear Mom.

You taught me to look for love in impossible places. That I’m impossible to love. I found it anyway. I made myself a strong, careful net. For 13 years, I’ve painstakingly crafted it with anxious, desperate hands, this safe space. I had to survive. You taught me that I wasn’t good enough for that. I found it anyway.