Dear Mom

I’m not writing this against you.

I’m writing it for myself.

For a long time, I believed love meant pulling myself together.

Being quiet when it hurt.

Moving on when something inside me came to a standstill.

“Pull yourself together,” you said.

“It’s not that bad.”

“Others manage too.”

I learned early to use these sentences like bandages.

Not to heal but to keep functioning.

When you cried, I held you.

When you fell, I didn’t ask why.

I learned to carry your sadness

long before I had words for my own.

Sometimes you were drunk.

Sometimes I was there.

Sometimes you took me with you,

sometimes you forgot where I was.

I sat in rooms not meant for children

and learned early how to make myself small.

Not out of fear

but out of loyalty.

You made promises.

And forgot them again.

Not out of cruelty, but out of overwhelm.

But a child doesn’t know the difference.

A child believes:

If I comfort you better, you’ll stay.

If I’m quieter, you’ll feel better.

If I’m strong, you won’t fall apart.

I idealized you,

not because you were perfect,

but because it was the only way

not to lose you

and myself along with you.

Today I know:

I was your child.

Not your anchor.

Not your protection.

Not your responsibility.

And still, I carry both within me:

love

and distance.

I’m not writing this to judge.

I’m writing it so I no longer confuse myself

with the role I once took on.

I leave you where you are.

And I finally take myself with me.

Samu