mother dearest by Grace Sofia

TW: rape, pregnancy, adult themes

Disclaimer: I own this piece and the rights to it. It's not to be published anywhere else without my knowledge and consent.

2018, December. 

Dear Bean, 

You’re a few months away, and I don’t know how I should feel about you. I don’t know how I do feel about you. I’m excited to know you, to know this part of me that will exist outside of me. Another part of me hates you for what you represent. I was supposed to be living up my freshman year of college to the absolute fullest, like I had planned to. I should be with my friends at clubs and dancing the night away, not nesting. I should be posting bikini pics with my girls on a yacht in Europe, not fitting maternity clothes. I guess that isn’t your fault though. 

Things have changed since you, Bean, and I’m trying to change too. I want to be enough to make you a good person, a great person with a life that exceeds all of my expectations. Still, my heart aches at what my life could have been. 

Anyway, I’ll see you in a few months Bean. Maybe you’ll be exactly what I need. 

-Mother 

It was June 2019 when I gave birth to my daughter, Espera. I was a single mother just barely getting by and trying to successfully graduate from undergrad. At the time, I knew nothing about raising a baby, I still was one in my mother’s eyes. 

My mother was the real reason I kept Espera. She told me a story of a time when I was a kid, and had just started school. It had been a new change for both of us, her having just left my father, and me having just left my dad. Now we had to go through another change, being apart all day long. My mother said it had felt like a part of her heart was walking further and further away from her, attached by a string that pulled tighter and tighter. Perhaps that’s what I was hoping for with Espera. 

Truth be told, I hated Espera. I liked her better as Bean when she was something to prepare for. I liked getting ready for her. Once she was real and only mine to take care of, any excitement I had fell away. Truthfully, she hated me too. I did everything in my power to soothe her for the first few weeks, but all she could do was cry. Her small hands creeped me out too. Mom said it was normal to struggle at first, being a mother didn’t come naturally to everyone. At some points, she even struggled with me. 

Breastfeeding was the worst part. I didn’t want to do it, for the sake of avoiding connection with Espera, but I woke up every day with my boobs as hard as rocks. The only release was to pump or feed her directly. It didn’t matter though. She rarely latched and normally it wasn’t without struggle. So, I would pump and feed it to her from the bottle. I couldn’t always look at her while she ate. Something about her peaceful and relaxed face made my stomach quench and churn. She would scrunch up her nose and then release all the muscles in her face. Her eyes were always closed through this, but would eventually open to look up at me. 

Postpartum Depression, the doctor said. Bullshit, I said. I never wanted a kid. I couldn’t go through with the procedure. My mother convinced me that even if I hate the beginning of our story together, the Bean was my blessing in disguise. 

“You are everything to me,” my mother had said. 

“But it’s his,” I sobbed into her arms. 

“You were once just a man’s daughter too, I fell in love with you all on my own.” She explained softly, running a hand through my curls. “You know I didn’t have the easiest time with your father, he wasn’t a good person. He drank a lot, and got angry when it wasn’t necessary. But you? You were my light at the end of the tunnel. You gave me a reason to wake up every morning and work to get my life together. I know this is scary, I know this is hard, I know you had a worse start than anyone, but I want you to know I’ll be here for the rest of my life to help you through it.” 

2019, July. 

Dear Espera, 

Here is the truth: I don’t like you very much. We started off rough and there’s a lot about being a parent I don’t enjoy. Still, I think you deserve a fair shot at a decent life, so I’m going to do my best. 

You may never have a father, but you will always have me. That much I can promise you. And while I will never know how I’ll feel around you, I promise to hide it from you the best that I can. You are an innocent bystander to a horrible man’s actions, and I guess for that I feel bad. 

-Mother 

To try and beat this alleged postpartum depression, I took Espera on walks. I put her in a stroller that used to be mine, and I walked her all around the neighborhood that I grew up in. This was better than being home alone with her. I got to smell the flowers and enjoy the wind in my hair. In the evenings I made her concoctions in the kitchen. I didn’t start off as the best cook in the world. I used old recipes of my mother’s, stuff she’s handing down to me now that I have someone to give them to. Espera liked the walks too. She was quiet and observed things, and that gave me some peace. 

The days that my mother came weren’t so bad. She’d take Espera from me and I could return to my life for a few hours. I caught up on reality TV and gossip magazines, things like that. In the evenings, I’d go out and take night classes while my mom watched Espera. My mom would text me pictures of her, but I learned to turn my phone off during class to settle the soft ache, the longing to understand her but the distance I’ve created, in my chest. 

The late nights weren’t the best. I’d be alone with her  and she was waking up every few hours to feed. By the time I was finally back in bed and nearly asleep, she’d wail again. It took her a while longer than most babies to sleep through the night too. No doctor could tell me why, and I tried to find an answer several times. 

The early mornings were the absolute worst. I’d be tired from the restless night, and Espera would be crying from a full diaper. Being a parent was never-ending. All I wanted was to live my life, but now I had a responsibility that I had to provide for. 

By month five, she was sleeping through the night. 

By month six, she was crawling and I could no longer avoid baby-proofing my starter apartment that was originally meant to lead me through the first four years of college. 

The first week of December, I decided to go all out for Christmas, for myself. I got a huge tree and put it myself. I got myself my favorite holiday color ornaments: Gold. I made myself hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream every day of December. I bought myself presents. I did my nails red glitter too, all by myself. I considered getting something for Espera, at my mother’s suggestion. It was her first Christmas, she had said, she should have some memories and sentimental things to hold onto. I decided to get her a purple teddy bear, my favorite color. 

The end of the year into the New Year was hard. All of my friends had posted about their fun plans at parties or family getaways, while I stuck home alone with Espera. I couldn’t even drink because I was still pumping. So it was just me, Espera, and a noisemaker in my mouth. Just before the countdown began, she burst into tears. I sighed and let the noisemaker fall to the floor as I lifted her. All her bottles were dirty and in the dishwasher, so there wasn’t anything prepared. The only noise came from the news reporters yelling on the TV as I lifted my shirt for her to latch onto my breast. Now that she was older, she latched with more ease, but it still hurt me. I hissed the moment her mouth made contact with my nipple. Espera’s body relaxed as she ate from mine. For a moment, her actions distracted me. Here she was, my daughter, feeding from me because I allowed her to, because my body allowed her to. I can do what no man can do, and I do so because I chose to forgive her. 

2020, January. 

Dear Espera, 

Things are complicated between us. We’re establishing a routine and it's creating a sense of normalcy. So much of me hates you, but so much of me wants to protect you too. I’ll admit something to you here. When I was pregnant I considered giving you up. I don’t know if I would have left you outside a fire station, or a hospital, put you up for adoption or found a family for your myself. All I do know is that I decided not to, not because I love you but because it’s up to me to see you through this. I made the choice to keep you, and I will follow through with that. 

Truthfully, a part of me does love you. You are a piece of me living all on your own, surviving because I choose to feed you and take care of you. Another part of me resents what you mean in my life, the child of the man who raped me. 

But I figured you deserved some answer one day, and this is me somehow putting to words what I went through. And besides there’s definitely going to be a day that you come looking for answers, you’ll ask about your dad, about where you come from, or why you don’t have a dad at all and I’ll have to explain it to you. Maybe I can give you this. Or maybe this can be where I write the ugly version before giving you the pretty one with the bow. 

I was a virgin the night he raped me. I was at a college party, in some frat house, living my life as carefree as possible. I met a boy there, and I won’t lie to you, when he flirted with me I flirted back. It was the start of my freshman year (of college). I wanted to live my life and make memories. 

So we danced and drank and smoked while the party raged around us. He was pretty and had dark brown hair and big hazel eyes with gold flecks in them. He looked like the kind of guy everyone knew and loved. The kind of guy you could feel safe around because he was cute. But what was almost scarier was that he looked like any other guy. Nothing particularly special about him, but still somehow sharp around the edges. For the most part, he was forgettable, but intisicing. 

I didn’t know when it happened, but he slipped something into my drink. I felt it happening. I lost control over my senses and body. It started in my eyes, my blinks turned heavy and slow. Then my arms went, and the drink slipped right out of my hands and spilled all over the floor. Then my arms went, and the drink slipped right out of my hands and spilled all over the floor. Just as my legs started to wobble and I lost my balance, his arms slipped under the back of my knees and he lifted me off the ground. 

To this day, I wonder why nobody stopped him. Why did no one think to ask where he was carrying me to? Where were my friends? I don't know where he took me, but I ended up in someone’s bed. I nearly fell asleep, in the comfort of this cloud I laid in. But I felt hands on the button of my jeans and fought to open my eyes. 

The sight in front of me was blurry, I saw the sharp features of jaw and nose and cheekbones. I saw what happened more than I felt it. Until it started anyway. He shimmied my pants down and pushed my underwear aside. I pleaded quietly with him, hoping he’d take pity on me and let me go. 

Tears welled in my eyes as I felt his fingers inside of me. His nails scratched at my walls and tears fell. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to lose myself in whatever he had given me. He grunted and moaned in my ear. As my slow tears turned to sobs, he took a pillow and stuffed it over my face. He didn’t pull out. He didn’t use a condom. He left me there, with my pants and underwear at my ankles. Blood was mixed with him inside of me, and was spilling onto the bed. 

Because of that night other things have changed about me too. The rape kit I did the next day was probably just as traumatizing. I remember the way the nurses put the camera everywhere. With my legs spread they snapped a picture of my bruised and bloodied vagina. They took pictures of all the small bruises too, and listed any marks or scars that had been there previously. The cotton swabs were bad. They ran them under my nails, inside my mouth, and in other places too. Nothing was off limits. 

I found out I was pregnant when I missed my period. I took a test on a joking whim, because there was no way it could happen, and it happened. Then, it became my worst nightmare. I had taken birth control at the hospital, but I guess it didn’t take. Figures I’d be in the small number of people that would happen to. 

After everything went down I started seeing a therapist to help me come to terms with who you would be; my rapist’s kid. I didn’t want to blame you for what he did, and your grandmother convinced me to keep you. She said I’d regret it one day, missing out on raising you. Yes, you are and always have been a reminder of my worst nightmare, but I want you to be something more than that. I don’t want you to have all that ugly in your life. 

-Mother 

By month ten, she took her first steps. Her giggles were loud as she wobbled across the room from her play mat over to me where I laid on the couch. She froze a foot away from me and her knees buckled. Before I realized what I was doing, I launched myself off the couch and caught her just before she hit the ground. My heart beated out my chest, the weight of her life sitting on it. 

A whisper went through the back of my mind. A suggestion, really. I considered it, chewed on it, and spat it back out. No good person does something like that, no good person give sup their kid without reason. Did I have a reason? Is being my rapist’s kid a good enough reason? Even after all this time? I don’t know and I wish I did, so I could do the right thing. At the very least, I can see her through. If she can’t even have two parents, the least she can have is me. 

“It’s completely normal,” my mother had told me. 

“No, it’s not, I’m a horrible person,” I whined. 

“I thought about it,” my mother revealed to me, rendering me silent. “When I was pregnant with you, I was scared to raise you. I was only 22 and your father was a drunk who liked to hit me when he got angry. I wanted better for you than what I could offer at the time. So, I just gave you better, I got my real estate license and started selling homes while you spent the day with me at all my showings.” 

On her third Valentine’s Day she cut a picture that resembled a heart for me. I kept it folded in an album to look through when she was older. 

On her fourth birthday, all of her neighborhood and classroom friends were in attendance. She blew out her candle with a smile on her face, with everyone she loved there. Just as I took a picture, she turned to look at me as if I was somehow part of her wish. 

On her fifth Christmas, she spent days drawing pictures of us holding hands. I hung them up on the fridge, but I rarely looked at them. Even now, I couldn’t tell you what colors she used. 

We spent many of her first years like this, her taking steps towards me and me as I took steps back. It wasn’t until she was nine, at her dance recital, that she started to understand I would always keep her at arm’s length. I had gotten a work call and it ended up going over her final number. 

I felt so ashamed. For lack of a better word. From that moment on, I decided to do better than my best for her. I scheduled more time together, so she felt supported. I worked grueling hours, so if she asked for something that she needed I could give it to her, and I put her in the best schools. I gave her every opportunity to flourish, and she did. She got straight A’s, was valedictorian, played softball, played the violin, and volunteered. It was simple, really: I provided, and she grew into a person any normal parent would be proud of. A part of me was proud because it was my hard work that allowed her to be this person. It was my sweat and tears that helped her grow into this amazing member of society. 

2025, March. 

Dear Espera, 

You won the spelling bee today. I came to watch and take pictures for your photo album. My mother also came, and we sat side by side in the fourth row. A safe distance to be able to see you, but not close enough enough that you’d see us and be nervous. She cheered loudly for you. Another parent came up to me and asked me what was my secret. My daughter was at the top of her class, and she had been for years, there had to be something I was doing differently. What they didn’t know is that I have kept you so far from me that we barely know each other. 

I know you strive for my love and my approval, I see it in your eyes. I know that you try harder than most kids your age because you want to show me your worth. All I want is to tell you to never base your worth on someone else’s validation because you’ll always be disappointed. Sometimes, even your mother isn’t someone you can count on. Unfortunately, that’s your reality, having a mother who won’t always show her love or support. 

I’m sorry that this is your life. Maybe I should have given you up. Maybe then things would’ve been better for the both of us. You would’ve been with a family that loved and cherished you, and I could have moved on. We both deserved that, but this is what we have. 

-Mother 

2027, October. 

Dear Espera, 

I finally got you to bed after a long day. We were out trick or treating today and some kids threw eggs at you. They ruined your Princess Tiana costume and broke your heart too. You were so sad and cried the whole walk home. 

I couldn’t help but hate those kids. My maternal instincts kicked in and all I wanted was to make you feel better, I couldn’t stand to listen to you cry. So when we got home and after we got you into the bath, I ordered a pizza. I brought you to the living room and poured your candy out on the table with the pizza beside the pile. I let you pick any movie you wanted, no matter how scary, and promised we’d watch it together that night. You chose The Shining. I popped popcorn and poured mini M&Ms inside, just the way you always ate it. We stayed up late watching the movie, and then when you were too scared to go to sleep decided on staying up to watch movies. We ate pizza through Princess and the Frog and then Encanto. 

This was the first day that I truly felt close to you. I wanted to protect you from whatever was out there that could hurt you. I can’t help but wonder if one of the things I should be protecting you from is me, from a mother who would never say I love you. 

-Mother 

2035, August. 

Dear Espera, 

You’re in an independent phase right now, so you don’t usually come to me for much anymore. I  don’t mind it really, it gives me more time for hobbies and such, more time for me. That’s all I’ve ever wanted since having you, more time for me and the thing I love doing. 

But today you came home crying. Your face was splotchy and red. You were stammering and sobbing in between every word. You collapsed in my arms, clutching onto my body like a life raft. 

Daniel had been cheating on you. He was your first boyfriend, and the first time we ever fought was over him. You were adamant that you loved him, and I was sure he was using you. It was the first time I so desperately wanted to be wrong. I’d be wrong a thousand times more if it meant you would never be as heartbroken as you were in that moment. 

I guess this is when I realized I more than cared about you. But how could I do this? Therapy didn’t work, medication didn’t work. I’ve tried hundreds of things to move on from that night. It’s like every time I look at you I’m back on that bed with a pillow over my face and I can’t breathe. 

Watching you in those moments though, when your heart is breaking or your innocence is in jeopardy, I felt great remorse for not giving you more. In those moments I can’t help but feel guilty for not being able to love you the way you deserve. 

-Mother 

March 8, 2036. A day I will remember for the rest of my life. March 8th, in the middle of the Women’s Day March, my mother died. I had taken Espera herself to the march, along with a friend and her mom, a date for us both. I was keeping a close eye on her, “Girls, stay ahead of us please,” I called to them at one point. 

“Your mom is such a buzzkill,” Espera’s friend muttered when she thought I couldn’t hear her. 

“She does her best, I guess,” is all Espera said back. 

A small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, a small sense of pride settling in my chest. That’s when I got the call from my mother’s home attendant. She came to give my mother her meds before lunch  and found her gone in her chair. She was 64 years old. 

March 20, 2036. Another day I will remember for the rest of my life. I looked it up, it’s International Day of Happiness. Funny enough, it was also the day we buried my mom. Espera stood at my side as I finally let myself go. Since the moment I got the call, I haven’t been able to cry, to let my guard down, to breathe. And here, standing next to my rapist’s daughter, and my daughter, and all the other people who loved my mother, I was overwhelmed with emotion. 

I cried and cried. Sobbed. My shoulders shook and my chest heaved. Snot ran down my nose and into a soaked tissue. My mother, my support system. Gone. Now it’s just me and Espera on our own. How am I supposed to do this without my mom? All I want is my mom right now. She got me through undergrad and graduate school. She found me a well paying job as a receptionist to take care of Espera while I was getting my masters. She let me stay in her home the first few months of Espera’s life, until I could afford to move out on my own. She babysat during my night classes when I decided to double major in photography and film halfway through my masters and had to extend it another year to makeup work. I am where I am today because of my mother.

Warm arms wrapped around me. Opening my eyes, I saw Esprea looking up at me, tears in her eyes. Then, I remembered, she’s watching.  Things with her have been hard recently. She’s still doing everything she possibly can to impress me, and I’m doing everything I can to learn to survive around her without my mom. Then there’s Daniel. Or there was. He was an influence to say the least. I don’t know what it is you saw in him, but I know I can relate to that feeling of falling in love for the first time. No romantic insecurities or past baggage to weigh you down. I understand wanting to do anything in your power to keep that in your life, because I’ve done the same thing. Back when I was 17, I was dating a guy who shall not be named, but at the time he was world. I did everything to be with him, make him more attracted to me, and see him smile more. It’s like I was all consumed by this feeling of care for someone, for loving that he wanted me any capacity. Because some love was better than no love I guess. But at this moment, it won’t be coming from me. I removed her hands from around me and stepped away. 

Things with my mother last year hadn’t been easy. She had early onset dementia, diabetes, and survived two surgeries after a tumor was found in her throat. It was all pretty early stage of everything when she died. She had just started to forget that she was my mom, that she had a granddaughter. Some part of me felt worse realizing Espera was losing more than her grandmother, she was also losing the only real maternal figure in her life would could say “I love you” to her. 

2037, December. 

Dear Espera, 

You’re applying to colleges right now. Things are pretty hectic. It’s been a lot of interviews and traveling. Considering I had to work, now as an Investor based on my math degree, you had to do most of this on your own. You’ve been going to various different states and even different countries trying to figure out the fight fit for the “vibe” that you want. This has given me some newfound freedoms. 

I walk around the house naked, and take long bubble baths while you’re away. I catch up on reading my books and magazines while you’re on the plane, the only hobby that feels acceptable to do during the time. 

I won’t lie, I’m worried what the world will bring you. You’re almost 18, you’re almost right where I was when I had you. I want you to have more than what I have had in the past. You deserve better than anything I could ever give you, and I want you to get that. I want you to live life, and make memories. I know things will be different from here on out, I won’t be part of your everyday anymore. That I’m okay with, I think. I think I need time to heal away from you. 

With that said, I will always be here to help you. To watch you. To care for you. And to get you to the next phase of your life. My job may be over, but it’s far from done. 

-Mother 

I knew she wanted more from me, something real, but I wasn’t sure if that was something I could give her. We did a dance all through her high school years until the day she left for college. 

We stood side by side as we folded her clothes into a box. The clock ticking over her bed is the only noise in the room, other than the soft ‘thump’ of clothes hitting the pile. My shoulders were dropped low, not tense with any anxiety. I was simply doing my job, my last day of the job I guess. After today, she’ll be her own person, and I will have little to no part in it. It’ll be the same way it was with me and my mother when I turned 18. It’s a scary realization to come to. Those first few months I was 18 over the summer, living my life as if I was gonna die tomorrow and my mother knew nothing of it. As far as she was concerned, as long as I was answering her calls and texts, she had no reason to call the police. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

I folded over another shirt and dropped it in the box. Espera rolled up a pair of jeans and dropped it in a separate box. This is how quiet the house normally was when there were no conversations to be made. 

“My classes start Monday,” Espera said. “I have a few days to settle in before then.” 

“That’s good,” I answered. 

We fell back into familiar silence, returning to folding clothes and packing things away. I felt Espera’s eyes on the side of my face but made no attempt to look at her. She tossed a pair of leggings into the box with force and turned her entire body to face me. 

I glanced over at her and took in the expectant look on her face. “What?” I asked. 

“When is it gonna be?” 

“When is what gonna be?” I asked. 

“When is it gonna be when you actually start acting like a mom?” “How is a mom supposed to act?” I dropped another shirt in the box. 

“Maybe like their kid matters?” 

“I have done everything for you, everything.” I truly did what I thought was best, giving my all while keeping my distance. 

“Sure we do stuff together but you completely check out and barely ever look at me.” She argued. 

I scoffed, “That’s not true.” 

“Yes, it is!” Espera exclaimed. “You talk to me and look right through me as if I’m not really there.” 

“I don’t know what you want from me,” I admitted.

“Anything! I’ll take anything at this point!” She threw her arms up and let them fall back at her sides, “Anything that isn’t as superficial as our entire relationship has been.” 

I returned my gaze to the box. “I don’t know what you want from me,” I repeated. “I don’t want to speak to you if you aren’t calm and talking rationally.” I turned and walked out of the room. 

I walked towards my bedroom, right across the hall, and grabbed my purse and phone. I headed down the stairs and out of the house. I didn’t get into my car but walked a familiar route. The old way Espera and I used to walk, back when she was a baby and I was unsure of where we stood. The majority of our life I was unsure of where we stood to be fair, even now. 

It wasn’t so much that I hated her anymore, I cared very deeply for Espera. I mean, she’s my daughter, of course I cared for her. Maybe I just haven’t fully moved on yet; maybe part of me still holds onto the moment she’s attached to. I don’t want to hold that against her, it’s not like it’s her fault and I don’t blame her for it. At least I don’t mean to. Still, keeping her in my life meant never forgetting it. 

After I walked a full look around our old neighborhood, I returned home. The house was quiet from downstairs, but as soon as I reached the second level I heard soft cries. My bedroom door was open and light streamed into the hallway. I inched closer to the door and pushed it the rest of the way. There on the floor in the center of my destroyed room was Espera. She was sobbing into her hands with papers crumpled into her chest. “Espera?” I approached her. 

Her hands pulled away from her face, and she finally looked at me. She raised a shaky hand and stuck the papers out in front of me. Once my eyes had finally settled, I realized they were my letters. “What are you doing?” I asked her, my voice hoarse as if I smoked a pack of cigarettes before this. My palms grew sweaty in a matter of milliseconds and my heart started beating in my ears. 

She sniffled and sobbed until she could take in a deep breath. “I was looking for my passport, my friends and I are taking a weekend getaway to Mexico soon.” She took a large shuddering exhale and spoke again, “I didn’t want to have to come back and need something from you. And I found them. What are these?” Espera whispered. 

“You weren’t-”

“-What are these, mom?”

“Espera, you weren’t supposed to-” 

“-What are these!” 

I sighed finally. “You weren’t meant to read those.” The letter had been a method I learned in therapy to try and move past the trauma, she was never meant to read them. By all the papers in her hand and spread out all over the floor around her, she’s read nearly every single one I’ve written the past 18 years and nine months. For every milestone in her life, bad day in mine, and monumental strive in our relationship I wrote a letter. And now, here they were laid out and read by eyes that weren’t mine. That very last eyes that should ever lay on these letters have laid on them. 

I looked at her, the woman I raised but never allowed myself to get close to. I kept her safe and cared for her at arm’s length. Is that what this was? Did I love her at a distance? I cared for her from afar and it wasn’t so bad for me, but it became bad for her. Was this his fault for hurting me or mine for never moving past it? All I know is that she wanted answers and I had to be the one to give them to her. I always knew this day would come, and I’ve been getting ready for it for years. It’s time to finally give her some real answers. 

She asked if I knew him. I said I didn’t, we met at a party. 

She asked if he knew about her. I said he didn’t. 

She asked why I didn’t tell him about her. I said he didn’t deserve to have her too. 

She asked me for details of the night. Had he drugged me? Where had I been? Had I even gone to my first class yet? I hadn’t. 

She asked if that’s why I stay up at night and drink lots of coffee. I tell her that’s how my mother coped with bad days, a long night of coffee to think and sort through the puzzle. 

She asked me so many other questions. She asked if this was why I never loved her.

“It’s not that I don’t want the best for you, and I dream for you and hope everything in life goes your way, but,” I paused, “You have your father’s eyes.” Big hazel eyes with gold flecks in them. I could see the way my honesty had stabbed her in the back. There was her before, and her after that are two different things. I told her all the truths, that it hurt and I was sore for the days following. I told her that I was still angry, and I didn’t know when I wouldn’t be. I told her that I didn’t remember much of what happened right after, that I was so far gone that I couldn’t remember a lot of the following hours. All I did know was that someone found me, covered in blood and vomit and other things, and called the police. 

“You were my age when all that happened?” She asked, looking down at her hands. 

I sigh softly, hesitantly. “Yes.” It’s strange to be reminded of that fact when she’s having the realization for the first time. She seemed to be struggling to look at me, as I was struggling to look at her. It was like seeing in a mirror. She may have her father’s eyes, but she has grown to have my everything else. My dark curls, the moles on and around my nose, my dimples. She even has my sun kissed skin, covered in strawberry skin and freckles. It’s almost as much of a relief as it sounds. 

Sometime during the night, I had been cleaning the mess Espera left in my room, she had left. She took what we had packed, left whatever we didn’t, and she didn’t say goodbye. 

The first few weeks she was gone were strangely freeing. I no longer had a constant reminder of the worst night of my life. I could breathe again. I started doing things I enjoyed again, like photography and film. I baked for the first time in years. I quit my high stress job and traded in for something that allowed me to be more creative. I went from being creative with people’s money to making art. I had a few different jobs at work, especially after a few promotions along the way. But at this point I was taking photos for movies and TV show sets, getting behind the scenes stuff. In the mornings I did yoga and went on runs, in the evenings I went out and came back at any time because I had no one to worry about. 

In the last few years, my life has gotten back on track. I went back to school, got a new job as a photographer, and started traveling more. I dedicated most of my free time to baking or self-care. I dated, regularly, for the first time in years. Life was finally mine again. I just never went inside her room again. 

Imagine my surprise when I was walking down the street one day in the middle of Europe, lost in my own thoughts, and I saw her. Espera. Her hair was longer, and her face had matured. She was smiling and speaking to a woman, their hands interlocked as they gazed inside a window of a shop. In that second, I froze. Looking at her then, a wave of feelings rose and crashed against my chest. Yearning and want, pain and confusion. Forgiveness. 

I watch, stuck in place, as she turns her head and kisses the woman on the cheek. They share a smile before turning and walking off. I take a few steps towards her, as she takes steps away and then stop. I watch them until they fade, people push past me and brush me aside, but I couldn’t muster a fuck to give. All I wanted was the piece of me that was walking away. The mirrored image of myself. The woman who was all love and kind and deserving of everything right in life. She looks so happy, and some healed part of me says that I want to be part of that. 

My vision clouds as tears blur my vision. She’s gone now, too far for me to do anything now, so I turn around and leave. I walk past my rented car, past so many places, things, and people and all of it seemed so irrelevant to me. 

I don’t make it back to my hotel until dark. I pack my bags and take the next flight home. I canceled all my work for the following week. The moment I walked back into my house, I trudged up the stairs to my room and sat at my desk. I did what I hadn’t done in a very long time. I wrote a letter. 

2045, July. 

Dear Espera, 

 I don’t know how to start this, I’m not even sure what I want to say to you. All I do know is that I miss you. I want to be part of your life if you’ll have me. I know things are complicated now that you know. Despite it all you are my daughter. You exist because I had more love in my chest than I did hate. What he did, means nothing because it says nothing about you. Yes, you came from him, but you became such a light in this world. So, what does that say about you? I think it says a lot about your soul and your kindness. 

Now that you know the truth, it takes even more courage from you to continuously choose a different path than he did. He did something terrible to me, took something from me that I’ll never get back. I guess my mother was right, you were exactly what I needed. It wasn’t that I kept you for your sake, it’s that I needed something to keep me going. You were the thing that kept me going. I woke up every day for you, I made every decision for you, and I’d sacrifice my peace for you all over again. 

I wish I knew how important you were years ago, but tonight seeing your engagement photos I realized that the time we had apart was needed. You had to become a person who wasn’t constantly trying to win my approval, and I had to become a person of my own again. 

I know this may be difficult, but I’d love to be there for every next phase of your life. I’d love to see you say ‘I do’. To see you have kids, if you want kids. It’d give me peace to know you were finally happy. 

Love, 

Mother. 

I stared at the letter, the rushed and sloppy scribbles, and sighed. I folded the letter, stuffed it into an envelope and ran out to stuff it in a mailbox before I could lose my nerve. I realized halfway down the street that I walked out without my shoes on. 

I return to my home and go lay in bed with the lights shut off. I stared off into the darkness, wondering what I would do when she received the letter. 

What would I say to her if given the chance? I guess I would start with an apology, she deserves that much. I wouldn’t know where to go from there, or how to start building back what we lost. All I know is that I’d love to have the chance. That’s all hoping she responds to the letter, hoping I didn’t ruin everything between us. 

I fall asleep to the sound of the rain starting to pour outside. That night I dreamed of a younger version of me, happy and loving, meeting Espera. The two of us played all night in my dreams, games that lasted hours and hours. We skipped, danced, and played hopscotch. It was the happiest I felt in a long time, and it wasn’t real.