I picked wildflowers for you. I brought you breakfast in bed on Mother's Day. I put a bell on your night stand when you were sick, and brought you whatever you wanted when you rang it. I told you that you looked beautiful and gave you handmade cards. I told you I loved you. So many different ways, I tried to win your approval.
Now I wonder if you look at the magnet I bought you at a Mother's Day garage sale when I was eight, which you still keep on the fridge, a little bear holding a heart that says, "I love you, Mom," and think that it's a lie. It isn't, but all those years I spent desperate for your attention and praise showed me that you never loved me. Not for who I really am. To this day, it's all about you.
It's not fair that a person can grow strong enough to walk away from abuse but remain scarred forever, haunted by it in everything they do, everywhere they go. A shadow falls on me, and darkens all my days. There's a hole in my heart that nothing can fill where your love was supposed to go.