Dear

Dear.

Here’s my confession to you.

You have always made me feel too much of too little.

Here’s what you’ve made me remember.

When I was two, I remember every detail of your relationship with your ex-husband. I remember when he left. I remember you crying.

When I was three, I remember my Tia. I remember us watching kids programming together. I remember her bouncing me in her arms, a kid, up and down. I remember you never being around.

When I was four, I remember my grandpa. He was a grumpy man, but a good man. He was the only man I consistently remember.

When I was five, I remember meeting my grandma for the first time, my Lita. I remember falling in love for the first time. I remember meeting my surrogate mother.

When I was still five, I remember the time I ran into your pregnant belly housing one of my best friends, Kari. I remember the beating your returned husband gave me. I remember you not saying anything.

When I was still five, I remember meeting Kari, seeing her alive. I remember making a friend for the first time. I remember praying “thank you” while looking into the sky.

When I was six, I remember your husband leaving again. I remember you threatening to send me away with him if I misbehaved again.

When I was seven, I remember you not very much. I remember my grandpa and Lita. I remember cartoons and telenovelas, caricatures as friends and surrogate caretakers. I remember too much of them and too little of you to misremember.

When I was eight, the cycle went on repeat. I remember understanding more and more of things not meant for a kid to speak. I remember the conversations between my grandpa and Lita, my surrogate parents. I remember thinking where you were, not that it mattered. Thinking something into existence rarely brings results to those who don’t matter.

When I was nine, the cycle repeated half-circle. Sometimes you were there, only to cause further despair. You were too much for me to bear. I remember you leaving, I remember you once again fleeing.

When I was ten, I remember you returning. You acted like you were ready to be a maternal giver. You made some meals, said some nice words. I remember thinking, “Is she really going to give me a litte more?” I remember my anger and loneliness and seeing you and feeling remorse.

When I was eleven, none of that mattered. I remember you colliding with everything. You said they were the problem. I remember me foolishly believing “my poor mother.”

When I was twelve, I remember us too colliding. You said, “Go away, I’m tired.” I remember I too was tired.

When I was thirteen, I remember us speaking. You demanded I pay for the nourishment I was needing. I remember the day our roles began changing, I remember you peaking.

When I was fourteen, I remember us saying very little. I remember nothing but fizzle.

When I was fifteen, I remember the talk we had. I remember meeting my “dad” for the first time, but not feeling glad.

When I was sixteen, I remember me thinking, “how much more can she lie!” I remember it not being a good feeling.

When I was still sixteen, I remember you being, nothing more than a woman with no clue and less of a mother with each passing season.

When I was still sixteen, I remember you saying, “If he dies, remember he loves you.” I remember thinking, “When will your lies stop, for the sake of all that matters!”

When I was seventeen, it was you and me and Kari again. I remember thinking, “Will this always be the theme? What does it mean?”

When I was eighteen, the roles were no longer interchangeable; I remember the day I signed my name and I adopted the title of unofficial caretaker.

When I nineteen, away went my first line of credit. I remember you saying, “I promise I’ll pay.” I remember me thinking,” That’s such a small price to pay.”

When I was twenty, I remember me thinking, “I have to leave now, before my love reaches a complete oblivion.”

When I was twenty-one, I was gone. A foolish attempt, I remember you calling and me thinking, “What more does she want to collect? Will she ever repent?”

When I was twenty-two to twenty-five, it was so slightly liberating. I no longer saw you daily, but I remember your bills, they were scaling. I remember every call. I remember every “You can’t do anything for me!” I remember me thinking, “My dear, why is there always so little for me to give?”

When I was twenty-six, I signed away our relationship. I remember signing to make your dreams come true, I remember the day I signed my own doom.

When I was twenty-seven and twenty-eight, I began to learn the meaning of hate. I remember me thinking, “Will she stop using my grandpa, Lita, and Kari as bait!”

When I was twenty-nine, I began to see myself crumbling. I remember the bones, the rubber skin, and my internal crying. I stupidly confided in you, I don’t know why. I remember the little you did, and the stupid things you said, the little that came to your mind.

When I was thirty, the world we lived in ended. I remember the new world, days and days inside. No end in sight. I remember me thinking, “At least now she can stay away.”

When I was still thirty, I began to feel an ugly peace. I remember the dead weight lifted, I thought to myself, “Thank God for this pandemic. Unlike her, it’s endemic.”

When I was thirty-one, there was nothing left to save. I remember me thinking, “This is the end of us, why did it come so late!”

When I was thirty-two, we said our ugly goodbyes. I remember me thinking, “I knew it would end in a fight.”

When I was still thirty-two, there was nothing left for you to seek. I remember me thinking, “Is this what people mean when they say they’ve found salvation?”

When this all ends, I want you to know.

My last confession to you.

Dear.

You killed all the love between us two.

A love I can no longer remember.

It ended not sooner but later.

But it ended thanks to no savior.

I wish you the best.

Dear.