In White Ink

I once felt like a warm and powerful thing, because I am your mother, but now I know I am weak, my account all patchy and nuanced, my story a box of handwritten concessions and unspoken protests, and things I can’t recognize; things misshapen, discoloured, forgotten. I am not sure enough to find the words. I have not made lists of dates and I have no signatures.

sorry for her willingness to learn the rules