What We Never Sat Down to Say — Part II

“Truth doesn’t ask permission. It asks for responsibility.”

— J. Elahi

You told me my family hates me.

My children hate me.

Your family hates me.

Your mother couldn’t stand me.

The truth is —

I loved all of them.

Until I stopped listening.

Until I stopped letting your experience

rewrite our reality.

You learned how to isolate pieces —

delicate ones —

and tear them apart.

I said things I didn’t mean.

But I meant the pain.

My words fought back

when my fists should have stayed still.

You were right to say I wasn’t shit —

because I hit you.

I abused because I was abused.

That explains nothing.

It excuses nothing.

But the truth doesn’t stop there.

You were abusive too —

to me,

and to our children.

I remember the day clearly.

The screaming.

The crying.

The yelling.

A child slapped for not listening.

Breath knocked out of a body

that trusted us.

I reacted.

Violently.

Protectively.

Wrongly.

But hear me when I say this:

Do not ever harm my children.

Do not ever touch them in anger.

I will choose consequence

before I choose silence.

That’s not pride.

That’s a boundary written in bone.

This is not a victory story.

This is a reckoning.

And reckoning is where healing either begins —

or never does.

Go, Girl

I only know you

from what people say about you.

I don’t pay attention—

though I listen.

I can’t find a reason to hate.

I don’t know you.

I would like to.

But the people I came up with

don’t even like the sound of your name.

It’s wild—

same inside, looking out.

So I’ll say it clean:

Congratulations.

You go, girl.

You never heard this

from my mouth.