i only really understood my mother when she was on her deathbed.
before that,
i was a rebellious teenager.
in her final months,
we finally talked and i apologized for pushing her away.
lately,
my older cousin has been sharing stories about my mother.
i didn’t just inherit her features; i have her rebellious spirit too.
we started talking about my grandmother and i opened up about the abuse she put me through.
i was always afraid to tell anyone but my cousin actually listened.
he said something that stuck with me…

“Your grandmother called everyone stupid.
That’s just who she was but she loved you.
She didn’t play about you.
I thought she was going to die from a broken heart when you refused to come home.
She asked why you wouldn’t come home every single day until she got dementia.”

part of me was comforted by that,
but another part couldn’t help ask:

I wasn’t just anyone.
I was a child and I needed to feel more of that love.

instead,
she made me feel like a problem,
always comparing me to others and making me feel unworthy.
i realized:

This is why I was drawn to the wolves and certain people in my life.

the ones i craved love from treated me the same way:
warm but distant in person,
but behind my back,
they were protective and cared.
and just like that,
i realized:

I am still that child,
searching for love from my grandmother.