You do. That makes all the difference. 8 months after my mother went to prison, I got a letter from prison. from her. I almost threw it away without reading it. But something made me open it. Inside was a single page of notebook paper. Her handwriting. Amber, I know you hate me. You have every right to.

I’ve had a lot of time to think in here, to really look at what I did. I was wrong. I was cruel. I was sick. I still don’t fully understand why I did those things. My therapist here says I have something called narcissistic personality disorder mixed with obsessive control issues. That doesn’t excuse what I did. Nothing excuses it.

But I want you to know that I’m sorry. Truly sorry. I know you won’t forgive me. I don’t deserve forgiveness, but I needed you to know that I finally see it. I finally see how much I hurt you. I destroyed your life and Michelle’s life and so many others. I wish I could take it back. I can’t. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry. You don’t have to write back. I understand.

I love you. Even though I showed it in the most horrible way possible. I do love you, Mom. I read the letter three times. Then I put it in a drawer. I didn’t write back. Not then, but I didn’t throw it away either. Michelle came to visit a few weeks later. I showed her the letter. What do you think? I asked. I think she means it.

Michelle said, but that doesn’t mean we have to forgive her. I know. Do you want to forgive her? I thought about it for a long time. Maybe someday, I said. But not yet. Not now. That’s okay. Michelle said. Healing isn’t linear. You don’t owe her anything. We spent the rest of the weekend together cooking, watching movies, laughing, being sisters.

It was nice, simple, normal. The kind of normal I never had growing up. Michelle had news. She was pregnant, her first baby. I’m terrified, she admitted. What if I turn into her? What if I hurt my kid the way she hurt us? You won’t, I said. Because you’re aware. You’re getting help. You’re nothing like her.

How do you know? Because she never questioned herself. Never admitted she was wrong until she was forced to. You’re already different. You’re already better, she cried, happy tears this time. Will you be the godmother? She asked. Yes. Absolutely yes. We talked about baby names about nursery colors. About the future, a future without our mother’s shadow.

A future we were building ourselves. 3 months later, Michelle’s baby was born. A little girl named Emma. I flew to Boston to meet her. She was tiny, perfect, innocent. Michelle looked at her daughter with so much love it hurt to watch. “I’m going to do better,” Michelle whispered to Emma. “I’m going to love you without controlling you.

I’m going to let you be your own person. I knew she would. I knew Michelle had broken the cycle.” 6 months later, my mother was released on parole. Her lawyer called and asked if I wanted her new address. I said no. She moved to a different state, started over somewhere else. She didn’t contact me. Didn’t try to reach out. Part of me was relieved.

Part of me was sad. I wondered if she really had changed, if prison and therapy had helped her see what she had done. But I didn’t reach out to find out. I was building my own life, a life without her manipulation. Daniel and I moved in together. It was a big step. I was nervous, but it felt right. We adopted a dog, a golden retriever named Buddy.

He was goofy and sweet and made us both laugh. Life felt normal, stable, good. Then one day, almost 2 years after the sentencing, I got another letter. This one was different, longer, more detailed. Amber, I know I don’t have the right to write to you again. But I need you to know what I’ve learned. In prison, I was forced to attend therapy.

At first, I refused to participate. I thought everyone else was wrong, that I was the victim. But slowly, over many sessions, I started to see the truth. I started to understand what I had done. The therapist helped me trace it back to my own childhood, to my own mother. She was cruel to me, constantly told me I wasn’t good enough, that no one would ever love me.

When I got older and men did show interest, I couldn’t believe it was real. I thought they must have ulterior motives. So, I tested them. I seduced their friends, their brothers, their fathers, anyone close to them. And when they failed the test, I felt validated. I felt like I was right all along. No one could be trusted. When I had you and Michelle, I wanted to protect you from that pain.

But I did it wrong. Instead of helping you build healthy relationships, I destroyed every relationship you tried to have. I made you as isolated and paranoid as I was. I’m so sorry, Amber. I robbed you of so many years of happiness, so many connections. I can’t give those back to you. All I can do is promise that I’m working on myself.

I’m taking medication. I’m continuing therapy even though I’m out of prison now. I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m not asking for a relationship. I just wanted you to know that I understand now. I understand what I did and why it was wrong. I hope you’re happy. I hope you found people who really love you. You deserve that.

You always did. Mom, I read the letter multiple times. I cried, not because I forgave her, but because I finally understood her. She was a broken person who broke other people. And maybe finally, she was trying to fix herself. I showed the letter to my therapist. How does this make you feel? She asked.

sad, angry, confused, all of it at once. Do you believe she’s really changed? I don’t know, maybe. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t let her back into my life. It’s too risky. That’s very wise. You can acknowledge her progress without exposing yourself to potential harm. Is it wrong that part of me wants to write back? No. It’s natural.

She’s your mother. You’re allowed to have complicated feelings about her. I don’t think I’ll write back, though. Not yet. Maybe not ever. That’s okay, too. I put the second letter in the drawer with the first one. Daniel noticed I was quiet that evening. Everything okay? He asked. My mom wrote to me again.

Do you want to talk about it? Not really. I just want to be here with you in the present. He pulled me close. I’m not going anywhere. Promise. Promise. Time kept moving forward. Michelle’s daughter, Emma, grew, started walking, started talking. Michelle sent me videos every week. Emma saying Auntie Amber. Emma taking her first steps.

Emma laughing at something silly. I visited them as often as I could. Watched Emma grow into a bright, happy toddler. Michelle was an amazing mother. Patient, loving, nothing like our mother. You’re doing such a good job. I told her during one visit. Some days I’m terrified I’m messing it up. You’re not. Emma is happy, healthy, loved. That’s all that matters.

Do you want kids someday? Michelle asked. Maybe. I think so. I’m just scared of becoming her. Yeah, you won’t. You’re too aware. Too careful. I hope you’re right. A year later, Daniel proposed. We were on vacation. Nothing fancy. Just a beach at sunset. Amber, he said, getting down on one knee. I know you’ve been through hell.

I know you have scars, but you’re the strongest, bravest person I’ve ever met. I want to spend my life with you. Will you marry me? I said yes. Of course, I said yes. We got married 6 months later. Small ceremony, just close friends and family. Dad walked me down the aisle. Susan cried happy tears. Michelle was my mate of honor.

Emma was the flower girl. My mother wasn’t there. I didn’t invite her. Part of me felt guilty about that, but I knew it was the right choice. Jessica gave a speech at the reception. I’ve known Amber since we were kids, she said. I’ve watched her go through so much, but she never gave up. She never let the pain turn her bitter.

She chose to heal, to grow, to love. Amber, you inspire me. And Daniel, you’re lucky to have her. Take care of her. I cried during the speech. Happy tears this time. After the wedding, Daniel and I went on our honeymoon. Two weeks in Italy. It was perfect. We ate amazing food. Saw incredible art. Made love in a tiny hotel room with a view of the Mediterranean.

On our last night, we sat on a balcony watching the sunset. Are you happy? Daniel asked. Yes, really happy. No regrets. About us? Never. About my mom? Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if she had been normal. if she had actually loved me in a healthy way. You can’t change the past.

I know, but I can control the future. I can make sure our kids never go through what I went through. Our kids? I smiled. Yeah, I think I’m ready. I think I want to have kids with you. Are you sure? I’m sure. I’m scared, but I’m sure. 2 years later, our son was born. We named him Ryan after Ryan, one of the guys from the support group.

He had become a good friend over the years. Holding my son for the first time was surreal. This tiny person who depended on me completely. I made him a promise. I will never hurt you the way she hurt me. I will love you without conditions. I will let you be your own person. Michelle came to visit with Emma.

Emma was four now. She was excited to meet her new cousin. He’s so tiny, Emma said, looking at baby Ryan. You were that tiny once, Michelle told her. Really? Really? Watching Emma gently touch Ryan’s hand, I felt overwhelmed with emotion. This was family. Real family built on love, not control.

When Ryan was 6 months old, I got another letter from my mother. This one was short. Amber, I heard you got married and had a baby. Congratulations. I’m happy for you. I know I’ll never meet my grandson. I know I don’t deserve to, but I want you to know that I’m proud of you. You broke the cycle. You became the person I should have been. I hope you’re happy.

That’s all I ever really wanted for you, even though I showed it in the worst possible way. Take care of yourself and take care of your family. They’re lucky to have you, Mom. I read the letter once and then put it with the others. I didn’t respond, but I didn’t throw it away either. Another letter? Daniel asked. Yeah.

How do you feel? I don’t know. Sad, relieved. It’s weird. Do you think you’ll ever talk to her? I don’t know. Maybe when I’m older when enough time has passed. Or maybe never. I’m not sure yet. Whatever you decide, I support you. Thank you. When Ryan was 2 years old, I got a call from Aunt Caroline. Amber, I need to tell you something.

Your mother is sick. She has cancer. Stage 4. She doesn’t have long. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. How long? A few months, maybe less. She asked me to call you. She wants to see you. And Michelle, I don’t know if I can do that. I understand. I’m just passing along the message.

Whatever you decide is okay. After I hung up, I called Michelle. I heard, she said. Aunt Caroline called me, too. Are you going to see her? I don’t know. Part of me wants to. Part of me doesn’t. What are you going to do? I don’t know either. We talked for an hour, weighing the options, talking through our feelings. Finally, Michelle said, “I think I need to see her. Not for her, for me.

I need closure.” “Okay, I’ll go with you.” 2 weeks later, Michelle flew in from Boston. We drove to the hospice facility where my mother was staying. I was shaking the entire drive. “We can turn around,” Michelle said. “We don’t have to do this.” “No, we need to for closure.” Like you said, the hospice was quiet, peaceful.

We checked in at the front desk and were directed to my mother’s room. She was lying in bed, so much smaller than I remembered. So much frailer. When she saw us, she started crying. “You came,” she whispered. “We came,” Michelle said. We sat down in chairs beside her bed. No one spoke for a long moment. “I’m dying,” my mother finally said.

“I suppose you already know that.” “We know.” I said, “I don’t have much time, and I need to say some things. I need you to hear them. We’re listening,” Michelle said. “I was a terrible mother, the worst kind. I destroyed your lives because I couldn’t control my own fears and insecurities. I spent so many years justifying what I did, telling myself I was protecting you, but I was really just protecting myself from loneliness, from feeling like I wasn’t enough.

Tears streamed down her face. I can’t take back what I did. I can’t give you back those years. All I can do is tell you I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. You deserved better. You deserved a mother who lifted you up instead of tearing you down. I felt tears on my own cheeks. Why? I asked. Why did you do it? Because I was broken and I didn’t know how to fix myself.

So, I broke everyone around me instead. Did you ever really love us? Michelle asked. Yes, in my own twisted way, but my love was poisonous. It hurt instead of healed. We sat with her for an hour. She told us about her own childhood, about her abusive mother, about the trauma she never processed.

It didn’t excuse what she did, but it explained it. When it was time to leave, my mother reached for my hand. Amber, can I ask you something? What? Your son? What’s his name? Ryan. That’s a good name. Is he happy? Yes, very happy. Good. That’s good. You’re a better mother than I ever was. I know, I said. Not meanly.

Just honestly, I’m glad. I’m glad you broke the cycle. Michelle and I left the hospice together. We sat in the car for a long time, not speaking. How do you feel? Michelle finally asked. I don’t know. Sad, relieved, empty. Yeah, same. Do you think we’ll regret coming? No. I think we needed to see her. To hear her admit what she did for closure.

I don’t forgive her. Me neither. But I understand her now. And that’s something. My mother died 3 weeks later. Aunt Caroline called to tell us. She went peacefully, Aunt Caroline said in her sleep. Thank you for letting us know. I said, “Are you coming to the funeral?” I looked at Daniel. Had baby Ryan sleeping in his crib.

At the life I had built, “No,” I said. I said my goodbyes. “I understand.” Michelle didn’t go either. We had both made our peace. Instead, Michelle and I spent that day together. We went to a park with Emma and Ryan. We pushed them on swings. We laughed at their joy. This is what she could never give us. Michelle said, watching the kids play.

What? Peace. Joy. A normal childhood. But we can give it to them. Yeah, we can. A few months later, I received a package in the mail from Aunt Caroline. Inside was a letter. Amber and Michelle, your mother left these for you. She wrote them in her final days. I was instructed to send them after her death.

Whatever they say, remember that you owe her nothing. You don’t have to read them if you don’t want to. You don’t have to forgive her. You’ve already done more than most people would. Love, Aunt Caroline. Inside the package were two sealed envelopes. One for me, one for Michelle. I called Michelle. Did you get a package from Aunt Caroline? Yeah, just opened it.

Are you going to read the letter? I don’t know. Are you? I think so. I think I need to know what she said. Okay, let’s read them together. Over video chat, we set up a video call. Both of us held our sealed envelopes. On three, Michelle said, “On three.” We counted down and opened them together. My letter was handwritten. Her handwriting was shaky. Weak.

Amber, if you’re reading this, I’m gone. I want you to know that my biggest regret in life is how I treated you. You were always so bright, so kind, so full of potential. And I tried to dim that light because I was scared. Scared you would leave me. Scared you would realize you didn’t need me. I see now how selfish that was. How cruel.

I robbed you of so much, but you survived. You thrived. You became an amazing woman despite me, not because of me. I hope you have a beautiful life. I hope you fill it with love and laughter and everything I couldn’t give you. Be happy, Amber. That’s all I really want. Even now, at the end, that’s all I want for you. I love you. I always did.

I just didn’t know how to show it in a way that didn’t hurt. I’m sorry for everything. Goodbye, my darling girl. Mom, I looked up at the video screen. Michelle was crying, too. What did yours say? I asked. She read it aloud. It was similar to mine. Apologies, regrets, wishes for a happy life.

What do we do with these? Michelle asked. I don’t know. Keep them, I guess. As reminders. Reminders of what? That even broken people can recognize their mistakes. That healing is possible. That we’re not her. Are you glad you read it? Yeah, I think so. It doesn’t change anything, but it helps knowing she finally understood.

Do you forgive her? I thought about it for a long time. No, but I don’t hate her anymore either. I just feel sad. Sad for her? Sad for us? Sad for everyone she hurt. That’s fair. What about you? Do you forgive her? I don’t know. Maybe someday, but not today. We talked for another hour. About our mother? About our childhoods? About how far we had come.

When we finally hung up, I felt something shift inside me. Not forgiveness, not closure, just acceptance. My mother was gone. The damage she caused would always be there, but I was moving forward anyway. I put the letter in the drawer with the others. A collection of apologies that came too late. But at least they came. Life continued.

Ryan grew into a curious, energetic toddler. Daniel and I talked about having another baby. Are you sure? Daniel asked. It’s a lot of work, I’m sure. I want Ryan to have a sibling. Someone he can rely on. Someone who understands him like you and Michelle. Exactly. A year later, our daughter was born. We named her Caroline after Aunt Caroline.

The woman who had finally broken the silence about my mother’s abuse. Aunt Caroline cried when we told her. I don’t deserve that honor. She said, “Yes, you do. You could have stayed silent. You could have protected her, but you didn’t. You told us the truth. You helped us escape. I should have done it sooner.

You did it when you could. That’s what matters.” Holding baby Caroline, I felt complete. My family was whole. Not the family I was born into. The family I had created. Daniel and I were happy. Ryan and Caroline were happy. That was everything. Jessica came to visit and meet the baby. “She’s beautiful,” Jessica said, holding Caroline.

“You guys make cute kids. Thanks. How are things with you?” “Good. I actually have news. I’m engaged. What? When did this happen?” “Last week. I wanted to tell you in person. We spent the afternoon celebrating, drinking wine. Well, I had sparkling water since I was still breastfeeding and talking about wedding plans.

You’re going to be my maid of honor, right?” Jessica asked. Obviously, I wouldn’t miss it. Your mom would have loved this. Seeing us all grown up, married with kids, I tensed slightly. Sorry, Jessica said quickly. I shouldn’t have mentioned her. It’s okay. You’re right. She would have loved this. In her own twisted way, she wanted me to have a family.

She just wanted to be the center of it, the only important person in it. Do you ever think about her? Sometimes, usually when I’m with the kids, I’ll be reading Ryan a bedtime story or feeding Caroline and I’ll think about how she must have done these same things with me and I wonder when it changed. When she went from being a normal mom to being a monster, maybe she was always a monster.

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