The Bridge Club Coup Every Tuesday at two o'clock they lay their cards face up— not hearts and spades but pay stubs
By Elena Vale9 months ago in Poets
The shoes by the door are mine now. The fridge stays full longer than it should. And the quiet— the quiet hums
You didn’t meet the milestones like the books said. You met the world on your own time, in your own rhythm—
You asked me for a story, and I told you one that didn’t end in fear. And somewhere inside me, a little girl
No milestones today. No tantrums, either. Just cereal on the floor, sticky fingers, a puzzle missing one piece
They slam the door before I finish my sentence. And I let them. Not because I’m weak, but because I remember
We didn’t always agree— on sleep schedules, screen time, or what love should look like on a Tuesday morning
There was a time when I answered to one name— mine. Before “mom,” before the calendar filled with other people’s needs,
You don’t notice it at first— the quiet exit. It comes in small, almost-silent goodbyes. The day they stop
I thought I’d teach you how to walk, how to read, how to say “please” and “thank you.” But instead— I’m learning
We are not raising them to obey. We are raising them to question. To ask why the rules exist, who they serve,
You don’t always look at me when I speak. Your eyes are fixed on something just past the window, where only you
