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."