to the woman who gave me a name but never taught me how to love myself.

the math of us is simple: you stayed still, so i had to run. you stayed the same, while i had to grow up by myself. you were a person in the room, while i was the ghost in the hallway - always looking through me. thank you for teaching me how to mother myself before i even knew how to be a child. you taught me how to find light in a void and how to keep my heart quiet when your absence got too loud. it’s a hollow kind of strength to carry, a survival instinct forged in a child’s isolation. maybe i’ll never understand why your love was a door that was always locked and maybe i’ll never stop digging through the silence of our past looking for a mother who was never there.

you stayed frozen in your own shadows because it was safer; i had to outgrow mine just to survive the cold. you gave me the blueprint of a woman, then wondered why i never learned how to properly love someone. i am the result of every emotion you refused to face in yourself. your indifference became my armor. i spent years trying to bridge the gap between your pain and your presence, but i finally realized: i was a better mother to you than you could have ever been to me.

so here i am, a daughter with the guarded eyes of the girl you never truly saw. i’m still trying to navigate the spaces you left empty. i’m not searching for your approval anymore, but i’m still living in the wreckage of your indifference. i’m still holding the breath i took when i was eleven, finally realizing that no one is coming to tell me i can let it out. i used to think i was a reflection of you, but i realized i’m actually just the echo of your silence.