things i need to say to mothers; letter no. 003: my emergency interrupted her gardening

(thank you for the mortgage and the emotional abandonment)

dear mother,

thank you for your service
as the emotional support ghost
i never asked for.

you always said the right things:
“that’s awful.”
“i’m so sorry.”
“how can i help?”
and then—immediately—
you’d start a landscaping project.

like your sympathy was seasonal.

i told you the man you picked
twice
was exposing himself again.
you said “oh no,”
[made a weird hand gesture]
and then dug up decorative rocks for a corner plot.

i fled barefoot,
with a baby,
a dog,
and no cash.
(sound familiar mom?)
you were mowing the fucking lawn.
(this is not an exaggeration)

like maybe if the grass looked good,
the trauma wouldn’t stain the sidewalk.

you knew i was absolutely fucked,
eating gas station muffins to survive midterms,
in a mathmatically impossible scenario—
and raising a child while dodging hazards
from men you still entertain.
and your move?

💸 a polite little mortgage payment
🌸 and a text about your new lavender plant.
girl,
firstly—thank you.
genuinely.
because it’s more than nothing.
and it means something.

we don’t live in a car.
not like your sister had to,
with two kids,
god bless.

so yes—i am grateful.
because it got real fucking close.
and your money kept the lights on
when everything else was off.

but let’s not confuse that
with you showing up.
(translation: the patio needs power washing.)

because when i was calling you from the driveway,
with a screaming baby,
after fleeing a man you knew was dangerous,
you were—checks notes—
gardening.

when the cops were being called on my dad—again—
you were “finishing up at work.”

and when i stopped calling?

you were fucking mulching.
deadass.
factually accurate.

you love to look engaged.
but you’ve always been
just busy enough
to miss the emergency.

you perform empathy in passing—
with a soft voice and a half-charged phone—
then get back to your regularly scheduled coping mechanism:
home improvement projects no one asked for.

i learned young:
your attention is chore-based.
you’ll do anything
except what actually needs doing.
you’ll say you’re sorry,
but you will never sit in the discomfort
of being part of the damage.

and now?
you want comfort.
connection.
a role in my story
you never earned.

and yeah—
i’m still grateful for the money.
after you watched me,
again,
grab my daughter and run.
knowing what he was doing to us.
knowing why i had to come in the first place—
again.
fleeing a scene, you stopped acknowledging
only once it stopped being your problem.

depsite raising us constantly on the run.
sacrificing entire childhoods
in the name of danger
so you sacrificed us,
to save yourself.

(brava)

—but the silence?
the inaction?
it cost more than the debt ever did.

you didn’t lose me.
you just kept playing busy
until i learned not to dial your number
in an actual emergency.

ma.
you didn’t lose a daughter.
you just ran out of ways to fake being the hero
without ever actually showing up.

i wish you well.
and by “well,”
i mean:

may your hydrangeas bloom
and your daughter stop calling you from hell.

…

p.s.
i’m sorry you’re going through crisis.
thank god,
you have support.
<3