What I Don't Say When You Call

I talk to you like I’m threading a needle with frayed string— careful not to tug too hard, careful not to bleed. We stay in the shallows now. You ask about the baby, the weather, what I made for dinner. I give you answers wrapped in bubble wrap. Nothing sharp. Nothing real. But I remember when I needed more than that. When I came to you splintered, and you handed me silence or scripture or shame. You taught me how to fold my hurt into paper cranes and send them flying where no one could touch them. Not even you. There were days you were fire and I was the nearest thing that could burn. Other days, you were ice and I bruised myself trying to break through. I don’t blame you as much as I used to. But the ache has settled— a soft rot under the floorboards of my chest. I wanted to tell you about the dreams I gave up. The therapy. The way I still flinch when someone raises their voice in just the right key. I wanted to tell you about the guilt I carry like a second heartbeat— how I sometimes hear your voice when I scold my daughter, and I stop, and I kneel, and I cry because I promised myself I wouldn’t. But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I tell you she said “mama” today. And you laugh like we’re fine, like there isn’t a river between us filled with everything we never learned to swim through. I mourn you like someone still living. And that’s the part I’ll never say out loud.