I'm sitting with coffee gone unbelievably cold, staring at the garden strewn with wild weeds. That's my cue to call the gardener and tell him to cut his holiday short. But I can't right? Because however much am I his employer, it's his life.
Like yours is your life, and even if I am your mother, I don't have any control over you. Especially because you sit with your husband and beautiful child on your lap in a subarbanite corner of New York City. Florida's cold. I would tell you to invite me over if you could.
I was a little child in a small orphanage, Maria. A kind couple took me home and called me Rose. They were gentle, nice, and overly loving. I grew up spoiled and ran away to find my true love. That much care someone gives you, and you leave him? It's a laughing matter, maybe sad, but laughing matter, too.
I found him, married him and escaped to Paris with the little money he had and we had nothing, not even a tin of beans by the tenth day. Paris is a rich city. Again, I laugh. It's irritating, I know. But I laugh.
I ran away again, but I realised I had you with me on a cheap doctor visit. I panicked and called him and he supportingly came to Florida with me. We realised we had to earn to raise you, and Mark tried to find work and eventually stepped up the business game. I had you nine months later in a two-room apartment in a nice corner of the city after coming home from the very nice hospital. I raised you with care. I raised you with happiness. But I didn't raise you with love. You grew up, mad at me for not letting you go to college and marrying the man of your dreams.
The problem is,dear, I experienced love and it wasn't so beautiful. I don't know where my real parents are, I left my foster ones who loved me so much, I loved my husband and now he's gone leaving me to mourn. I didn't want a similar thing to happen to us. You're my daughter, and I want to say I love you the most. You're my precious petal and you mean everything to me. You are my soul, the spirit of my live. The words cease to come out. I am scared, Maria. I don't know how to love without harm. I hope you'll forgive my poor heart someday. Because I cannot love you even though I do.
It didn't make any difference, the damage is still done even though I didn't say I love you.
Like I always do, I'd say love was a rose, and I'd laugh. Oh, the irony. But I look at the garden, infested with weeds, and a drop falls out of my eye. Before I know it I cry, my heart wrenching with pain, wishing I knew how to say I loved you without doing the damage that hurt.
I acknowledge this work as completely mine. No part has been reproduced, copied, stolen or borrowed, Internet or otherwise. This is an entry for the Letter Writing Competition by Write The World.