“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered, my words quieter than the breeze blowing around us. Us; the ghost of my mother and I.

My arms were wrapped around my chest, giving myself the hug she couldn’t. Above, the leaves of the large apple tree rustled in the wind. It had grown stronger as I stood there—now it whipped at my clothing and blew through my hair.

I blinked as my eyes began to water. I told myself it was the wind making me cry, not the feelings inside. Sadness and anger swirled in my stomach, tying it tight knots. Guilt was there, too, and I couldn’t bear myself to face it.

Instead, I watched as a crimson leaf fell from the old tree, catching and spinning in the air. It looped up and down, as if on an invisible rollercoaster, before finally settling among its kind in the grass.

Something about the simple scene made my heart hurt even more. My throat began to close up and tears welled in my eyes.

“I’m so, so sorry, Mom,” I repeated. The words were still quiet, only for my ears. Nobody else was in the cemetery, but I felt as if I were having a private conversation with my mother. There was no need to shout.

My words shattered something inside of me—a dam that had been stopping the guilt from existing. But now that dam was broken, and I had given in to my emotions.

I fell to the ground. I wasn’t sure how. Just that one moment, I was standing, and the next I was eye to eye with her tombstone.

My hands didn’t know what to do. They ran through my hair as ugly cries escaped my throat. Then they raked through the grass, crushing leaves and uprooting the dying lawn.

I was destroying the ground, just as I had destroyed my mother’s life. I was just so good at messing things up, wasn’t I?

Pieces of hair escaped their place behind my ear and stuck to my tear-stained cheeks. I shivered, suddenly cold. I felt the sudden urge to throw up, which brought on another fit of sobs.

I could hardly breathe; I panted in rapid breaths that got lost in the wind. My stomach hurt from crying so much, but I couldn’t stop. Everything around me had crumbled to the ground. There was nothing for me to hold onto.

I closed my eyes, losing sight of my mother’s grave and the cloudy sky above. Chills traveled down my spine as goosebumps spread across my skin. I felt the need to say something—anything to get rid of the sick feeling in my stomach.

“I didn’t mean to,” I said, my speech warbled. My eyes opened and I began to blink away the tears. More seemed to simply take their place.

“I promise, Mom, I didn’t,” I continued, “I love you. I was just trying to be what you wanted. Don’t hate me…you can’t hate me.”

Every single word was broken by a cry or a sniffle. I felt torn inside as anger grew in the pit of my stomach. She was the one who had pushed me to my limits.

Then it was replaced by guilt again. How could I hate her, when I was the one standing on top of the ground, while she was buried six feet under?

“I was just finally doing what you said you wanted me to do,” I said to the slab of gray stone. I was speaking, more to reassure myself than to explain to her.

“Nobody knows,” I added, wiping at my tears, “They can’t know. I didn’t mean it. You know that, right? You…”

I tried to take a deep breath, but it came out shaky. I cradled myself again, biting my lip as I felt more cries coming.

“I was just trying to be what you wanted,” I repeated. “I-I…I was just trying to be what you wanted.”

Then I began crying again, those same ugly, broken sobs ripping out of me until my voice was raw.

It didn’t stop, even then. I carried on, sobbing even when no sound came out of my mouth. Somewhere along the way, I realized that crying wouldn’t stop the feelings inside. It wouldn’t get rid of the guilt, the anger, or the grief.

But at that point, there was no reason to stop, because there was no hope to hold on to.