Don’t grieve for me, don’t fall apart because of me.
I want you to fly in a way I never could.
I love you, my little butterfly.
Mom
By the time I was finished reading the letter, I was weeping.
It was the kind of crying that left the body aching, wrung out, scoured raw.
I sat on the floor with my back to the wall, and my knees bent to my chest, the letter falling from my grip to spread like a white flag on the grimy floor. I could have lain there for hours.
I thought I would be angry. Instead, I just missed her. Missed the version of her I’d spent my whole life resenting, the one who was always letting me down, the one who was a punchline at sleepovers, the one who called me in a blackout and left voicemails I never listened to.
I missed the way her voice used to fill the house, even if it was only to curse at the sink or shout at the news. I missed the weight of her presence, which had always been an obligation, a tether, a thing to escape from, until it was finally gone.
I wondered if that was the trick of grief, that it rewrote history to make the villain bearable. Or maybe it was just easier, for the first time, to see her not as a monster but as a person.
A person who tried, and failed, and failed again, but never stopped wanting something better for me.
This was her first time on this planet too, and I forget that.
Mothers carry the weight of their sadness too, a rock on their shoulders. Often, their sadness bleeds into their daughters. Sometimes, that sadness is invisible, rarely seen.
But with my mother, her sadness was a beacon, calling out for help, corrupting everything in its path.
In time, I got tired of listening, of trying, of hoping.
I wept for her, and for Lillian, and for the child I’d once been who believed there were still summers ahead with lemonade and easy forgiveness.
I wept because the letter was proof that she’d seen me, that she’d always seen me, and that everything I’d worked so hard to forget had mattered, after all.
The wall that I had built around myself began to dissolve, brick by brick, and I wanted somebody to hold me and to cherish me. I yearned for the closeness I never had growing up, the safety I never felt.
All along, she had some awareness of her shitty behavior. That knowledge hurt even worse. She knew, and she couldn’t stop; we weren’t enough.
Nothing is ever enough for an addict.
She had an incurable darkness. It wasn’t our fault; we did everything we could, and it was not enough.
It was her choice to fall and break.
She was born with ghosts, she lived with those ghosts, and died with those ghosts.
Glancing up, I realized that the sky had fallen to a grey-white hue. Moonlight filtered through the window. Time had stood still within these walls. I didn’t even realize how much time had passed.
It was as if I were frozen, like a ghost, drifting through this house and unraveling memories that were rotting in my mind in slow motion.
I pulled my phone out and checked it. Caiden had not responded. I had no way to get back to the motel, unless I called a cab, but I did not want to allow a stranger to see me hobbling out of his house, tears staining my cheeks, hobbling as if I were a dead thing.
More minutes passed by as I sat there, a lifeless spirit, contemplating my grief.
My phone lit up with a notification, and I looked down, expecting to see Caiden’s name, but instead saw an unsaved number.
Hey, Amelia. This is Dante. I ran into Caiden at a bar. He caught me up on everything. I heard about your mother. I’m deeply sorry. I came back to town after I left. Didn’t find anything worth committing to anywhere else. I saw your mom in town sometimes, and I would think about you. I know this can’t be easy. Just want to know how you are doing, and I’m here if you want to chat while you are in town.
Memories came at me full force.
