An Open Letter to the Mom That Left

I once had a therapist tell me that I didn’t know you at all. That I was too young to really know you when you died. Maybe he’s right.

I know you loved art, though. Not the kind that’s hung up in museums, but creativity. Making art boxes covered in stickers, laughing on the floor with coloring books, making a puzzle for me to enjoy.

I know that you wanted to be a teacher before the reality of needing to make money set in, but I’ve seen your binder (the one with your diploma and all of your teaching experience?) and I know you loved it. Your passion for it is clear.

I know your hair was beautiful. It was like sunshine poking through the thunderstorms of your mind.

And your cat? Stinker? Yeah, he was pretty cute. He WAS pretty cute until he ripped up your apartment carpet that you then had to pay for.

I know you had a hard life and that I didn’t help. I don’t know my dad, but I know that you didn’t want me to and I’ll never know why. I know I don’t want to know your dad because of what he did to you.

I know I’m sorry. I’m sorry I caused you so much stress. I’m sorry that instead of enjoying college, you had to raise a child. I’m sorry I existed. If I had a choice in being born, I would have waited until at least your senior year of college. I’m sorry we couldn’t help you. I’m sorry you thought pills were the only thing that could.

That therapist that told me that I don’t know you? Fuck him.