Dear Mom, or Mother Dearest—should I say?
You were never much of a mother to me.
You told me you hated me, called me stupid,
Wished for my death like it was nothing.
You beat me until I lay motionless,
Brushes shattered over my head—
So many, I lost count.
I should have been dead, but I survived.
You said my body was deformed,
But I defied you.
I sculpted myself into strength,
Became the prototype for designers,
A runway model in the flesh—
My chin, my jawline, chiseled in defiance
Of every cruel word you spoke.
I refused to believe your lies.
I watched Happy Days and Leave It to Beaver,
And I knew—families weren’t supposed to be like this.
It wasn’t me. It was you.
Still, I asked myself:
Why were you so cruel?
Why was love a foreign language in our home?
No kind words, no I love you,
No acknowledgment of anything I did.
You praised everyone but me.
And yet, here I stand—
The one who made you proud,
Without you being around.
Dad once told me
I kept expecting you to be something
You were never going to be.
He was right.
But that never stopped the questions.
How could you hate your own daughter so much?
Do you feel guilt? Remorse?
Do you even have a conscience?
Aren’t you afraid of the hell
Your Catholic God warned you about?
Oh, that’s right—
The nuns joined in too.
But now, Mom—
I know you don’t have much time left.
So before you go,
I forgive you.
Not for you.
For me.
And with that,
I’ll let you go.
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