Mother:
After you were born - they placed you in my arms. I cradled you, and you were so quiet. Unusually so. After a while, you opened your eyes, and shortly after, our eyes met. And I began to cry. Only they weren't tears of joy, but of profound sadness. Sadness and - I think, maybe fear. Terror, even. It overwhelmed me. I didn't understand it. I still don't. All of these years, I've carried that with me. You were such a peculiar child. So quiet. Always keeping to yourself. Even as you got older. And the stories you would tell - half truths. Elaborate fantasies. Part of me wanted to believe that you did all of these things out of spite. My work kept us at a distance. And it's a gap that just widened over the years. I've resigned to quietly study you from afar. This was always the way it was going to be. It's the way I'd prefer it to be. And I would venture to guess that the feeling is mutual. And that's fine.
Riportata da il
05/03/2025 alle ore 07:19
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