Everything comes so easily for you. Your home hums with peace, as though the world itself bends to your comfort. Laughter bursts from you, unguarded and easy, spilling through the gap in your teeth as if you’ve never had to hide it. Your nights are safe, your stomach always full. You’ve never felt that sudden, icy stab of fear for something as small as a spilled drink or a careless word. You’ve never mastered the delicate art of walking on eggshells, your feet never aching from the practice.

You don’t know what it’s like to hold your breath in your room, waiting, listening, dreading the sound of how I shut the door. You’ve never begged for sleep to swallow you, the only refuge from a world that wouldn’t let you rest. No, your life is softer, safer. You fail without fear because you know there’s no price to pay. You’ve never doubted that comfort and security are yours for the asking.

Anger wouldn’t dare inhabit your world. I doubt you’d even recognize it if it stood before you.

“I hope you have a kid, and they turn out just like you,” was spat with icy hatred from the lips of the one who carried me into this world.

But I did. I did have a kid just like me. And the hardest part of loving you is knowing she never did.