But I didn’t
And I also didn’t even like her.
Because a part of me knew before I had language, that I was not safe in her love.
I never really enjoyed her company.
Not because I didn’t want to…
but because I was always tiptoeing around her moods, trying to be small enough to not trigger her sharpness.
Her criticism lived in the air.
And when she spoke,
her words cut deep like a knife.
I was a child reaching for warmth and finding silence instead.
Choking on what was never said.
Blaming myself for what was never given.
She saved her softness for the outside world.
And I learned to survive the version of her that no one else saw.
That kind of grief is complicated. Because you miss someone who was never really there.
RICE MUSINGS 