Sincerely

'Dear Mom-Who-Abandoned-Me,'

No, too dramatic.

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'Dear Mom-Who-Never-Accepted-Me,'

No, too sad.

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'Dear Mom,'

No, too personal.

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'Dear Woman-Who-Raised-Me'

Too /cringe/

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I am not addressing this letter. Not as an act of defiance as I wish I could fool myself into believing, but to stop myself from sitting back and reflecting on the fact that I do not have a role for you in my life. What do I call you, Mom?

That's a word that shoves the worst kind of memories down my throat. The ones where I taste the sweetness and choke hard on the sour. It's when I remember that you were always telling stories of me. Not stories, jokes. At my expense. My biggest bully: Mom. I had my friends' Moms though, and they taught me what was Mom and what was human. And let me tell you, Mom, those Moms are Super Human. So if Mom isn't where we sit, what word's the perfect fit? ...Mother?

That's too formal. That's like a, "We're going to your Mother's house? " muttered in disappointment to a father when the wife leaves the room that almost starts a fight when asked to repeat himself because she almost heard him. She most certainly heard his tone. Dad, he can hold his own though. He could hold his own and then some. He held up the World until it came crashing back down on him, on all of us really. Some days were just so hard, but the conversations never ended without "I love you." I can't call you by your name, the way he only addressed you in serious situations.

Calling you by your full or partial name is a confusing gambit in which I do not wish to partake. Which last name do I go with? The new one that distanced me from you in the first place? The one that put more thoughts in your head that I was being selfish? That took you away when my depression almost took me away? I could stick to the one we share, but maybe that's a touchy subject for you. You seemed to want to distance yourself from your old life as quickly as possible. I'm sorry if you were in a bad place back then. I thought you were so happy. I thought you and Dad were exactly the perfect balance. A grown man willing to cry and a grown woman holding back everything vulnerable. I never knew you by your maiden name. You guys did the whole marriage thing by the rules. You married the love of your life. I thought he was the best thing that ever happened to you.

I'm sorry that I cannot write you a letter. When I figure it out, I will tell you about all of the things that have gone well in my life. I would talk too long about my cat and how sweet he is. A few moments later, I, being unable to hold it back, would also complain to you about the many stupid things he does and is responsible for, but for now, he is asleep on me, and I can't stay mad. The only thing you would never hear would be my struggles because I wouldn't want to take the attention off all of yours. I would send you a postcard from Paris simply saying that that boyfriend I told you about, we eloped. I won't send either, but it's these fantasies where I miss your presence.

I will sit here writing fiction because it's easier than sending a letter to someone I don't know anymore and getting a response that will only further torment me. To hold a physical piece of evidence open to my own self-deprecating interpretation would set me back a decade. Back to that girl in bed who just wanted to fade away; who pleaded with God to let her just feel safe again. I am safe now. Safe in my own space where I can think about the ghosts of my past and come to an understanding within myself of how to move on. Although I often wonder about who you are now.

If I won the lottery, even just $20,000, I imagine you would find a way to get in touch with me. In this reality, you are leeching onto me, and I know you don't actually care, but I eat up the attention. After all, it's everything I ever wanted. I think that's the worst version of myself my brain can think of, a dependent child. I can only lose myself in these what-ifs for mere moments before tunneling back to the present where, if I won a lot of money, I would be too concerned with living my life to care about what you were doing. I want to be excited about the future, not worried about the past. I want to go to Paris and write a postcard that I never send that tells you of the happiest moment of my life so far with the most important person I have ever met.

Your loved daughter

P.S. The truth is, I never intended to send you a letter which is why I didn't write this on a legal pad and didn't type it up, I wrote it in my little black notebook. We all carry our strength differently and mine is tender. My strength is shaky when it is questioned and it hides in self-doubt, but it eventually re-emerges and with it comes the realization that I am good enough.