Dear Mother

I carry her sorrow like an heir-loom

There’s a heaviness in the air we all breathe, a tensed silence beneath the chaos of filtered conversations and unspoken secrets. A dollhouse of plastic—inauthentic and fragile, held together by delicate pieces, infrastructure ready to collapse. Seeking refuge in between tongues, desperate to be the center of discussion. To be heard, to be known, to be seen; the desperation louder than any voice that lingers in the landscape.

Stoicism lay before us like an open wound, a proof of our bond. Might be the only one ever. You taught me to carry this pain, and so I carry it as an heirloom, picturing some of you, still with me. I can alter myself down to the limb, but my make-up is structured in corruption. The roots run deep, Mother. You bore the seed, and we all carry the same roots, the same faith of the poison tree.

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“If a mother was Sacrifice personified, then a daughter was Guilt, with no possibility of redress”

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What an example to all uncultured and less expressive families we are. What a pathetic cry for help it is to find flaws within your own bloodline and still choose to stay and preach nothing but nonsense.

The cycle is a loop, and the loop is flawed.

I will break the cycle.

Will you finally be proud of me, Mother? Or shall I believe it to be another great topic of discussion at the dinner table? Like my existence was a mere distraction, a play set forth.

There is a mutual understanding between us. The dining table is designed to perfectly hold our quarrels, to reshape misunderstandings into grudges, and opinions into insults. Yet, we still eat from the same plate; we chew in the same rhythm, with our eyes interlocked but hearts laced in the same pain shared among us trapped by blood, so close in proximity but emotionally far off the deep end.

After all, you taught me how to eat, Mother. You taught me how to love, but mostly you taught me how to be indifferent. How to perform in public and guard my feelings, even in private. How to build walls in the face of my loved ones and still pretend they are doors.

You taught me that betrayal is human nature. I never knew you’d be the first one to teach me that. You taught me how to carry the weight of your disliking, because hate is too harsh to be uttered amongst family. It was spelled out in subtle ways, in gestures of our everyday life. It’s been fused in the air we breathe, and it’s mirrored our present reality perfectly.

If we must suffer, we must suffer together. The contract was signed at my birth, and your fingerprints have stained the pages. But it is not ink; it’s blood, Mother. It’s a red ocean embarking on our journey to safety.

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“My mother didn’t foresee what was going to become of us as a result of witnessing her despair.”

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You said blood runs thicker than water, and so I believed it. I let it run, but now the blood clogs my veins, and it’s getting hard to breathe; my very own blood started to terrify me. I finally realize the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

I tried to escape myself, only to find out every step leads closer to you. How do I save myself and save you, from you, Mother?

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“I was born with my mother’s eyes. I loved those eyes until I remembered the anger in them, in me.”

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I can no longer fathom your arrogance and your flaws, but who is to say I am the perfect daughter to you? Who is to say I am not as lonely as you are, Mother?

The ship is sinking. You’re holding your breath, and I’m holding mine, and we’re drowning. Hands held, because you never taught me how to hold another. Eyes closed, because you refused to see the world with all its lights and succumbed to a dull universe where right and wrong rest side by side, distinctively. Where error never takes place. Where light never shines at the end of the tunnel, and hopelessness becomes virtue.

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“Or was it my mother’s rage? Or her mother’s? Or hers? An inherited creature.”

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I plead to you, our cries do not echo through the water, mother. They reflect, and what sits before you at this mirror table is me. A version of me you live through vicariously.

But how can I blame you? After all, we share the same faith. I recognize the scared little girl in you who gave up on her dreams, as if the only way to continue the lineage was to silence the heart. I assure you, Mother, the heart you gave me is beating enough for both of us. Despite your efforts, it is deafening, and I will build a home in it. A sense of belonging it ached for.

You gave birth to your sorrow; therefore, you cannot look at me. You cannot unweave the pain in my eyes; I carry it the way I carry your blood, embedded in me. I cannot separate it from myself, so I let it identify me. Only a mad woman can carry a mad woman’s faith.

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“Mothers are humans. Who sometimes give birth to their pain. Instead of children.”

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You gave birth to your failure, hoping more experience could transform us, but I am, alas, a view of yourself in the mirror. Acceptance can not be shared until it is believed within, so I pleaded before you: let us float before the water that drowns us; let this shared pain reach acceptance, for it deserves a better destiny than a war passed on.

A daughter is not a sacrifice. A daughter is not a vessel for your hopeless dreams. She is not a rekindling of your life or a wound. I believe a daughter is a star in the starry night sky, who is only luminous if you share your light, if you let the star beam, for that is a star’s only wish.

I refuse to pass on this heirloom: this blood that reeks of indifference and hatred dressed in emotional resonance. This cycle will be broken despite your disappointment, even when it’s all I have ever known.

I accepted it the first time in that hospital room. The subtle stares and the quiet gestures that carried more contempt than words ever could will fade with the walls where innocent laughter once lived. Whatever truth remained was never in our closeness, for the truth only lay in the mourning anyway.

And now, Mother, the water rises again. We sink as we always have, two beings bound by blood experiencing the same descent. It feels peaceful in a way, as if this is the closest we have ever come to understanding one another.

There is no rescue coming, but perhaps rescue was never the point. If we must drown, then let it be together, Mother. Let the weight pull us under in unison, for in this surrender, we finally find what we never could on land: the peace of knowing neither of us is alone.

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This is a collaboration post by .*• Ayat ☆ and Sienna. We wanted to explore the emotional distance that can exist in a mother–daughter relationship

We had such a great time working on this; it was really meaningful to bring those feelings to life and to work with such a phenomenal writer.

Check out the accounts to see more of our work if you’d like!

Thank you for reading :)