Burning Beneath

I’m sorry I never called you Mom.

I’m sorry I never felt like you were my mom.

I’m sorry I never made you feel like you were a good mom.

I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from all the evil you faced, totally alone in this world, in this ugly abusive world. Maybe the world was nice and beautiful for other people, but not for you. You had to face a brutal life, struggling with your own mental health, in and out of mental institutions that had nothing to offer except electrical shocks and treating people like prisoners as therapy, if you can even call that therapy.

I’m sorry for being so embarrassed that you were my mom. My therapist says I didn’t know better because I was a kid.

And now I’m 52 years old.

I exploded into tears when I brought up that specific memory with my therapist. Everything inside me burst out — the chaos, the guilt, the pain I had kept locked away for so long. I felt so guilty, thinking I should have known better, that I should have been kinder to you, more respectful to you, more empathetic to your situation. But I didn’t know how. I only knew how to stay silent and survive.

Maybe you didn’t know how to protect me. Maybe you didn’t know any other way to show love except the way you did. I can see that now.

You disappeared in 1995. You left without a trace and never came back. I never thought of going after you or searching for you, even at the age of 18 years old. I remember my auntie telling me, “Let’s go ask the police stations and look for her.” I agreed with hesitation. To be honest, I didn’t want to do it. Part of me felt relief that you were gone.

We went together, and I stayed quiet, just observing. They gave us albums of deceased, unknown, unclaimed people. The things I saw were brutal and haunting. One picture always stayed in my mind. I never said a word. I never pointed to it. I never told anyone. But for years and years after, that image never left me. Deep in my heart, I know it was you. And even then, I froze. I didn’t speak. I didn’t react. I just carried it silently inside myself.

I still feel guilt when I think about it. How come I didn’t recognize you? How come I didn’t say a word? How come I didn’t acknowledge it was you at your last moment in the harsh world you lived in? I can’t justify my silence. I can’t give excuses for it. I only know that I froze because I never learned any other way to face emotions, grief, or pain.

I lived my life numbing myself, staying quiet, invisible, and small — no noise, no reactions, no attention drawn to me. I think I froze my feelings my whole life.

The only thing I want to say to you now is this:

I’m so sorry you had me for a daughter.

I’m so sorry I didn’t know better.

I’m so sorry I didn’t love you back.

I’m so sorry I didn’t give you what you needed.

Now it’s 2026, January 1. At this age, I see you from a mother’s perspective, from an adult’s understanding — not from the eyes of that child who knew nothing. My therapist says my behavior was self-protection and self-preservation, and that it was okay. It was the only thing I knew.

But I feel so bad that I didn’t know better. I wish I did.

I wish I could have been more help to you.

I wish I could have shown you that someone on this earth loved you back.

I wish you didn’t have to live that brutal life alone.

I know your soul is somewhere, and I hope you hear me.

I do love you,

I don’t blame you for anything.

Your daughter