“I Gave You What I Never Got”

You asked me for a story,

and I told you one

that didn’t end in fear.

And somewhere inside me,

a little girl

finally exhaled.

You cried,

and I didn’t flinch.

Didn’t say, “You’re fine,”

like I was told.

I said,

“I see you.”

And I did.

Both of you—

the child I made

and the one I used to be.

You asked if I was mad.

And I remembered

being afraid of the answer.

So I bent down,

looked you in the eye,

and said,

“No. Just tired. And still loving you.”

You asked to be held.

And I did.

Even though no one held me

when I asked like that.

Maybe especially because

no one did.

There are things I didn’t get:

Soft voices.

Room for mistakes.

A sense that love

was something earned gently,

not fearfully.

So I give those things

to you.

And in doing so,

I give them

to me.

Parenting isn’t just forward motion.

It’s return.

It’s revisiting a childhood

with new hands—

gentler ones.

It’s whispering to the past,

“I’m sorry you had to wait this long.”

And still—

it’s never too late

to grow something softer

from the same soil.