Two Sentences Apart
Last night, I watched a mother and daughter on a screen soft laughter, easy love. And somewhere in the quiet, a question slipped out of me: "who am I without my mother?" I fell asleep with it. Morning came, and with it, her voice, casual, careless— reminding me who she thinks I am not. Something in me went still. And then, without thinking, I said it not loudly, not bravely, just… truthfully: "I am everything without my mother."