She turned 18 on Mother’s Day, the years flash by;
I compare my way of being a mother to those who seem to be superhuman.
I never was, unless you count getting two degrees and working full-time, but even then the guilt of time spent away from her eats at me.
A mother’s guilt doesn’t cease. I take introspection to the level of penance with lashes upon my back.
I was never the soccer or PTA mom, she was lucky if I checked her homework.
I lived in my many addictions while getting them treated for her sake; generational trauma passed on down with her as a victim.
I was once too, but where does it end? I did my best to break cycles while creating new ones.
I love her. That’s what I know and have known with an indescribable depth since she was born. I was young and afraid and had no clue, but I knew she meant the world to me and still does.
If she felt that and still does, then maybe I’ve done my job after all.
Emily C. Poesie © 2021