A Letter To Mama — Part 2

I didn’t come back to stay, just to visit, Just to check on things, be present for a minute. But I saw too much to turn away, And what was meant to be brief turned into stay. Dad looked worn, and you seemed thinner, Exhausted from fighting an invisible winner. And something in me—call it guilt or grace— Knew I couldn’t leave you in that place. So I unpacked my heart and put down roots, Started carrying burdens I didn’t choose. I drove you to treatment, day after day, While working full-time and staying out the way. I paid what I could behind the scenes, No spotlight needed, no in-betweens. I just wanted to ease what pain I could, To soften the noise like a daughter should. I heard the doctor—his words rang deep: “She needs peace if she wants to keep Her health from spiraling any more.” So I made peace my private chore. But you— You turned on me with bitter grace, Blamed me for others and made your case. Told me I was like the rest of them, When all I ever did was defend your name. I took on pain I didn’t earn, Watched every bridge between us burn. You’d vent at my door for hours on end, Then laugh when I tried to help or mend. I’d offer advice with a trembling voice, But you’d shoot it down like I had no choice. Three times you told me to move along— And each time, it felt more like a song You played on repeat to push me away— So finally, I left. What else could I say? Since then, the air between us is cold. You speak in rumors, in stories retold. You trust the noise from outside walls, But not the voice that answered your calls. You called the cops on your own child, And not once did you ask or reconcile. Not once did you say, “I might have been wrong,” You just played your part and moved along. It’s confusing—how deep this love still goes, Even as resentment quietly grows. You were my hero, the strongest I knew— Now I brace myself just to speak to you. You say you want calm, then pick at the flame, Say you’re done with drama, then start the same. And I sit there silent, numb but aware, That peace was never really welcome there. I’ve grieved you like a ghost who’s still alive, Still breathing, still speaking, but hard to survive. Is it betrayal to walk away from pain? Even when love is what remains? I wrestle with guilt, with loyalty’s rope, Tug-of-war between closure and hope. Because I still want us to laugh again, To stand on solid ground, not pretend. But I can’t keep bleeding to prove my care, Can’t keep pretending it’s fair when it’s not fair. This isn’t hate—it’s a boundary drawn By someone tired of being your pawn. I still love you, Mama. That truth won’t fade. But I won’t let love become my blade. If I must step back for my own breath, Know it’s not rejection—it’s self-respect. And if one day, your pride dissolves, If reflection whispers and truth evolves, I’ll be here—changed, but not closed. Still your daughter. Just more composed. This is my elegy for the living kind, For the mother I still carry in my mind. And if nothing else, may this poem be A record of love that begged to be seen.