I’ll call you mother now that you’re dead. You always wanted me to, like you did your mother. Mom was enough. Even that was often hard.
You could have scooped me up into your arms and said, “I’m so sorry for what Chet has done. My poor darling.”
Held me, loved me, rocked me, and the tears that came would not be shame but those that heal. You buried me with that lecture that you said wasn’t a lecture, wasn’t blame.
Oh yes, it was.
Every time I tried to talk to you, you became highly emotional, dramatic. And when I said ‘stop being dramatic’, your drama intensified, making it all about you. Every time……. I gave up. We never made it to, “I’m sorry.”
It was always a kind of yelling out, “Of course I’m sorry.” More like I’m being chastised once again.
And when Tom wanted to talk, his first words were about how young he was.
Why is it when the subject of the crimes I was terrorized by was approached, others want forgiveness and leniency before even apologizing, asking for forgiveness, or showing any remorse at all? I blamed me. Because of my rage, my inability to forgive.
It’s not that. It’s your weakness … and his, and the others who knew and did nothing.
You didn’t protect me. And when I needed your love, you blamed me.
Hold me. Rock me. Tell me it will never happen again.