To D.M. "The Silence Between Us"

D.M.,

I spent my childhood speaking into silence.

You were there physically. But emotionally? You were asleep long before you ever laid your head on a pillow.

I grew up learning that love meant tiptoeing around grief.
That existing too loudly meant making myself a target for shame or judgment.
That asking for comfort meant being told there were bigger wounds in the room than mine.

You lost a son.
I lost a mother.

And no one ever said it out loud.

You told me, in so many ways, that I was the afterthought. The "oops."
That my dreams weren't practical. That my voice wasn't necessary.

You steered me toward safety when I needed to be taught courage.
You steered me toward silence when I needed to be taught how to fight.

And when I needed you to be proud of me, you were busy counting all the ways I was falling short.

I’m not writing this to hurt you.
I’m writing it because this silence between us didn’t start today. It didn’t start yesterday.
It started decades ago, when I learned that love from you would always have conditions I couldn't quite meet.

But here’s what you missed:
I still grew.
I still survived.
I still found pieces of strength in places you never thought to look.

You wanted me to stay small so I could stay safe.
I wanted to be big enough to live my own life anyway.

Maybe you did the best you could. Maybe you didn’t know another way.
I’ve tried to make peace with that.

But know this:
The woman I am now; flawed, loud, stubborn, scarred; is not here because you taught me how to be strong.

She’s here because she refused to disappear.