I love you. All that I have ever wanted was to feel like you were proud of me. I tried to be who you wanted. I found that didn’t work. Then I tried being myself. I found that I was happier, but you still were not proud of me. Mama I am fourty one, and I have succeeded. I am published. I am usually a happy soul. Yet when I fall, and I do occasionally fall. It is your voice in my ear, telling me you expected it all along. When I get rejected for my poetry, (as rejections are normal for the writer to recieve) that everyone else would tell me I wrote so well? I hear you telling me that you didn’t want to hear it because of how depressing it was.
Mama, I have published five volumes of poetry, three children’s books, and a novella. You know that family have hardly even acted like it mattered? I am doing what I told you I wanted to do at nine. I am a writer. So I may never be a novelist, children’s books still need written. I have never asked for much. Just a hey, that is awesome. Or even… Uh sharing it on social media that you have a daughter who is printed. So I put space between us. I admit that I was tired of feeling like you just didn’t care. I deserve to be someone who is cared about. I’m sorry that I was never the daughter you wanted, but Mama, I have always just been me.