Inheritance

They say I have your eyes— but I think I inherited your silence. The kind that blooms in doorways and lingers in the sigh before a sentence. I watched you wash the same dish until it forgot it was glass. You said it was better this way— to be useful, than to be known. Now I’m here, mothering in the margins, folding myself into baby blankets and breastmilk, trying to remember what I used to want. Some days I don’t speak except in lullabies. And on the best days— that is enough. But I still look in the mirror for the girl who once believed she could fill pages instead of plates. And maybe she’s still there, humming under my breath while I do the dishes.