June 2, 2026

Why is it that when someone dies, we feel compelled to bury their ugliest truths alongside them?

We sweep their failures beneath the rug, polish their memories until they gleam, and tell stories that soften the sharp edges of who they really were.

The day you died, a part of me died with you.

I felt sadness and anger. Love and resentment. Guilt and relief.

I could have been a better daughter.

You should have been a better mother.

For years, I buried the hurt you left behind. When I finally gathered the courage to confront you, I was met with the familiar responses:

“I don’t remember that.”

“That never happened.”

The words landed like a second wound, forcing me to question memories I knew were real.

So why can’t we say the thing no one wants to say?

You were a terrible mother in many ways.

And yet, in others, you were fiercely intuitive and protective.

Every time resentment rises inside me, conflict follows close behind. Because despite everything, you loved me the best way you knew how.

The problem was that the way you knew how wasn’t always enough.

You learned to lie. Sometimes so convincingly that the line between reality and fiction disappeared. The stories became memories, and the memories became truth.

You learned to steal. Not because you were proud of it, but because survival had taught you that taking was easier than going without. I never cared about the money you took from me. What hurt was watching our needs go unmet while your addictions were fed.

You learned to run. When life became difficult, leaving was easier than staying. So you chased freedom, chased men, chased the promise that someone else would shoulder the responsibilities you didn’t want to carry.

You were stubborn in both life and death. You spent your life trying to prove you were as tough as any man, only to leave behind a lifetime of unfinished healing.

Cleaning out your apartment after you died was the most heartbreaking part.

Every room told a story of depression disguised as possessions. Drawers stuffed with things you didn’t need. Closets overflowing with things you never used. Purchases made to fill emptiness that could never be bought away.

It was like walking through the physical remains of your loneliness.

I still cry when I think about everything you missed.

The grandchildren you never got to know.

The birthdays.

The ordinary moments that become precious only after someone is gone.

I loved you.

I still resent you.

Both things are true.

And maybe that’s what grief really is—not choosing between love and pain, but carrying them together.

These days, I find myself wondering how my own children will remember me.

Will they remember the ways I failed them?

Will they remember the ways I loved them?

I don’t want them to bury my flaws after I’m gone. I don’t want my mistakes hidden beneath sentimental stories.

I want them to tell the truth.

I want them to know that I was imperfect, stubborn, frightened, and flawed—and that I spent my life trying to become better.

Most of all, I want them to know one thing you never quite managed:

I will not run.

I will be here.

Through the hard conversations.

Through the disappointments.

Through the mistakes.

Through all of it.

I will stay.