Your Shadow Lessons

You taught me how to read a room in seconds,

how to hear anger in the way a fork is set down,

How to measure love by volume and slammed doors.

You never said “I’m afraid,”

You just tightened your jaw

until the whole house held its breath with you.

I learned early that feelings were fire hazards,

So I stored mine in the attic of my ribs,

quiet, dusty, leaking through the ceiling at night.

I swore I would never become you,

and then caught my reflection one day

with your exact tired shoulders,

Your storm sitting just behind the eyes.

So I started doing tiny rebellions in your name.

I said “that hurt” out loud and didn’t apologize.

I booked therapy instead of booking it out the door.

I practiced soft voices in the mirror,

voices that still shook but did not shout.

You were a caution sign and a blueprint at once,

a list of what not to do

scribbled over the parts of you that tried.

Some days I hate you for the damage,

Some days I thank you for the map.

Because every time I choose to stay kind

when my own jaw tightens,

Every time I listen longer than my patience,

I feel the chain loosen by one more link—

and I become, slowly, the person

You might have been

If someone had done the same for you.