i wanted to be mothered.

I wanted to be mothered,

not as an afterthought,

not with hands that shook from exhaustion

or words that cut when they should have healed.

I wanted softness, not survival,

a place to rest that didn’t demand

I carry your weight too.

I wanted lullabies to drown out the chaos,

a voice that promised the world

wouldn’t always hurt this much.

But you taught me to brace for storms,

to flinch at kindness,

to harden before I could bloom.

I didn’t need you to be perfect.

I didn’t ask for answers

to questions I was too young to ask.

I just needed you to see me,

to hold me when the dark grew teeth,

to whisper something other than

“Be stronger.”

You loved me like a duty—

a task you couldn’t put down,

but one you never held close.

And I grew up mistaking absence for love,

teaching myself how to fill the cracks

with silence, with grit, with ghosts.

I wanted to be mothered,

to feel your arms as shelter,

not scaffolding.

To know that when I fell,

I’d land somewhere soft.

But you taught me to stand too soon,

to bear the weight of your sorrow,

to carry your dreams

when I could barely hold my own.

Now, when I reach for you,

it’s like grasping at smoke—

familiar, fleeting,

never enough.

I wanted to be mothered.

Instead, I became my own,

rocking myself to sleep,

cradling the child I still am,

and forgiving you

a thousand times over

for not knowing how.

REMI.