I chose not to send you a birthday card.
But I still thought about you all day.
I thought about Mum, back in the day and her fierce disapproval that I had chosen this quiet protest.
“Oh Kate,” she would have said, the rest left unspoken.
This morning I see you are in Florida again.
That you left the country without telling me, hurts.
That you left the country before I even had the chance to register my protest in not sending you a birthday card, hurts.
My choice this time but you robbed it again.
For all the horse shit that has come with knowing you, this pretence that I was wanted, these stories that you pushed me in my pram up and down the sunlit lane outside the mother and baby home the day I was taken to my new family, it’s just another story, faded like you with time.
For all the years I have spent longing, I wish you had had the courage and grace to tell the truth and let me go.
Don’t tell me stories to please me.
Don’t tell me stories because it makes it all better for both of us in your opinion.
In my opinion, it doesn’t.
In fact, your opinion is what got us both here in the first place.
This misplaced desire to be kind is horrible when the truth is so much rawer than that for both of us.
Honour the truth.
You met a man who was “forceful” with you and you were left on your own to clean up the mess.
The mess – being me.
But I am the better part of you. The part that writes, draws, sings, lives, cries, shouts, roars, bleeds, breaks open and walks tall without you. The part you never let go. The part you never let go to explore in your own life. The part you never let break open for fear of the light that would shine in on those dark, empty places.
I am not mute.
I don’t run scared from the telling.
I run scared from you – like you run scared from me.
The last time we met, I tried one last time to talk to you.
And you asked me to pray for an answer.
It never came.
Still, I hope the sun is shining on you in Florida and that your God will give you a peaceful heart.
Picture credit: Nancy Haslam Chance