I wrote a letter. I wish I didn’t. But in reality, I knew I had to. It was true, I made some mistakes. My life blew up and my daughters got hit by the shrapnel. It was a mortal wound and severe. I tried to remove the metal from their flesh. I tried to repair the wound and help it heal. I wanted to help. I did what I could do. It was rejected, my hands pushed aside.
The caring nurturing hands of the maternal were sought after. They squeezed the girls, held them tight. She tenderly rubbed salt in the wounds. She picked the scabs so that the bleeding would continue. She removed the sutures I had placed, stripped the bandages. She did it to hurt me, it hurt them. They echoed the screams of anger, yelled hurt, bellowed hate. I tried and I cried.
I was told my oldest child wanted nothing to do with me. I looked into her eyes and saw the hate, the pain from the salt. I was told she was enmeshed and entrenched. I could keep pushing and probably lose her forever, or I could give her more space and time. I could write a letter saying goodbye for now. I wrote the letter. I tried everything else. I cried. I wrote the letter. She will read it today. Her birthday is tomorrow.
Goodbye for now.