Inheritance

by MissT

You gave me your eyes
but not your vision.
Your voice,
but only to silence mine.

I was raised on tension,
tiptoes,
and the art of staying small.
You taught me how to shrink
before I ever learned to shine.

You called it discipline.
I know now it was projection.

Still, I took what you couldn’t give
and gave it to myself.
Kindness.
Boundaries.
A voice that won’t be swallowed.

You may never apologise.
You may never understand.
But I do—
and that’s enough.

I don’t hate you.
I just won’t hand you the matches
and stand still in your fire anymore.

---

Reflection:

I didn’t write this to wound.
I wrote it to let go.

There’s a quiet kind of grief that comes when the mother you needed never arrived — and the one you got taught you to doubt your worth before you even found your voice.

This isn’t about blame anymore.
It’s about breaking patterns.

For years I wanted something soft from her. A moment of accountability. A glimpse of the love I kept searching for in all the wrong places. But I’ve learned that some women can’t mother. Not because we weren’t worthy — but because they were wounded too.

I don’t carry her shame anymore.
I carry my story.
And it’s heavier in truth, but lighter in spirit.

To anyone who’s healing from a mother-shaped absence, I see you.
We’re not bitter.
We’re just done being burned.