butter fly thoughts

v. who are we if not a flashback of our mothers

My mother was made of steel, of discipline, of dreams, of rules and of past. She would not let me speak, would not let me choose, would not let me decide. I loved it though. If you knew her, you'd know that that's her way of coping, of feeling, of loving.

"Your mother is everything I wished for my wife to be," my father told me one day. "But she changed when.. when you came."

"Do you hate me, then?" I asked, toes curling. He'd hate me, that's for sure. But I wanted to know what confirmation feels like, what pain feels like, what drowning in the blood laid by someone you love feels like.

"You are everything she wanted you to be, kid. Everything," he said, his breath caressing my exposed ear. "So, no. I could never hate you."

"Father, I don't understand."

"You have to know, to understand that all that she was doing was what she failed to do for herself. And thank you for letting her do that. I'll be here, I'll be helping, darling. Dad is here."

I nodded, sending a prayer to the God who always listens. Prayed for patience and forgiveness as I slowly lose my self in a blur of my mother's dreams.