The Letter I’ll Never Send

There are so many things I wish I could tell my mother. But I know that saying them out loud would cause more pain than I can bear to hand her. So I write them here, where they’ll never reach her hands—only mine.

Dear Mother,

There are words I’ve rehearsed in my head for years, but I’ll never bring them up again.

I wish I could know you—the real you—without the smoke and mirrors. Without the constant filter of “What will people think?” Even when the “people” are your own children.

Sometimes I feel like when you visit, it’s not for me—it’s for the story you’ll tell others later. You say you worry about me, but when I broke from tradition, you turned away at the very moment I needed you most.

I wish you could accept me for who I am. But I also know that if you did, you wouldn’t be you. This—distance wrapped in duty—is our relationship. We’ll never be a Gilmore Girls episode, and maybe I wouldn’t want us to be. But I wish we had a reality that felt real—not the polished performance we both keep up.

You raised me under the threat that if I stepped too far out of line, I’d be thrown out of the house. Now, as an adult, you deny it, saying you only meant it because “it worked.”

I know you tried your best. I know you did what you thought was right. But I still wish, just once, our realities had collided—yours of keeping face, mine of wanting truth—so we could meet each other without fear.

You say you’ll always support me, no matter what. We both know that’s not true. If I had made different choices, if I’d strayed from your values in a way you couldn’t defend, you would’ve closed the door. And that’s the saddest part: the bond I wish we had has always been conditional.

You keep your distance. I keep mine. That’s where we live now. You’ll never know how I truly feel, and I’ll never truly know you. Maybe that’s easier. Because most of the time, I’m sad—and I don’t want your pity or your fixes. If you tried, you’d shape me into the mold you always imagined, and I’d lose the self I’ve fought so hard to find.

Maybe, in separating from you, I finally found myself. But that’s something I could never tell you—because if I did, I’d feel guilty for breaking the cycle that lived in our bones for generations.

Your Daughter,

The One You Raised to Keep Quiet