Mom, do you remember?

Dear mom,

Do you remember when you came home that one Wednesday afternoon and I was in the bathroom with the door locked? I remember the cool tiles pressed against my bare thighs. I sat there so long that they imprinted the small squares onto my legs. The pattern: one black tile surrounded by two white tiles, repeated over and over again. It was imprinted into my mind. So much from that day was imprinted in my mind, my memories that, to this day, still walk beside me.

I remember so much from that day. The clear, gray sky with air wet you could almost taste it. The page between spring and summer hadn't turned yet and the chains of humid summer hadn't yet been released.

Do you remember how I sprinted past you heading on a run? I remember you thought it was odd seeing how I never went for a run, but I did on that day. The thick need to run from the test that was hidden away pressed against my chest. I remember my body moving on its own from the bathroom to the door. My shoes were worn, and I didn't pause to tie them until I was on the driveway.

I remember taking one last deep breath before I silently prayed that the day would disappear. That the night, that stupid night weeks ago would have been different. That I wouldn't have left your anniversary dinner early. That I wouldn't have changed in the car in the parking lot of his apartment. I remember pleading with everything that was inside of me, that I wouldn't have made the biggest mistake of my life.

Do you remember calling after me asking that I put my makeup case away next time? I remember I paused for only a second, I might have said something, but I remember my legs pulling me out the door before I could fully form a thought.

I remember the soft gentle breeze that pushed against my back, propelling me on. The soft rustle of the wild grass as that same wind rippled across the field. I watched the shapeless breeze float across the field, an ebbing, mesmerizing wave that playfully ran through the golden wildflowers that sprinkled that tall grasses. The rocky path stretched before me, two lines of trees on either side as I ran into the woods.

Do you remember how much you loved me? I remember asking myself.

I remember my breath was heavy as I thought back to the possibility of two other lines that might have appeared. The test was tucked into my makeup bag, away from you. At least, I hoped you hadn't looked.

Do you remember seeing my tear-stained face as I hurried back to the bathroom? I remember making some excuse about needing a shower. I remember rushing down the hall, the walls pressing into me. The steam from the hot shower filled the small bathroom quickly.

I remember I waited too long to look, the lines were faded.

Do you remember what emotions you felt waiting for the two lines to appear before you knew me? I remember anger. I remember fear. I remember sorrow. I remember a monster forming in the pit of my stomach. I remember the thought clear as if I were reading it in front of me now, the thought that if the two lines appeared in my hand I would get rid of it.

I remember the realization of the pain that decision would cause. But I remember thinking, knowing that I could never be a mom like you. I could never love a child who makes mistakes as big as I have. I could never raise a child to be the strong, independent, powerful woman you raised me to be. I could never amount to the role model you have been for me for all these years. I prayed harder than I ever have in my life for more time to become more like you before I needed to be you to another person.

Do you remember hearing the sigh of relief I breathed?

I will always remember the pressure of love that emanated from you as you held me in the hallway. I remember how you never asked me what happened. You just held me. I will always remember the moments of love you let fall from your hands so that one day, at the right time, on the right day, I will feel what you did as you waited for the confirmation that you were going to be a mom.

Thank you for always remembering to always embrace me for who I am, mistakes and all.

All my love,

your daughter