A daughter’s architecture

Today almost passed me by. I woke up both hollowed and heavy — confused. It’s your birthday. I remember the hurried designs you crafted, turning me into a person. I remember cooking and sewing, combing hair and playing referee. You were an architect with vision and I was the wayward building that never fell, but despite your best efforts, leaned into its own gravity. You died so young, but I remember believing that you would not have left if you didn’t think you had prepared me. You told Madeline, “Melanie is going to be just fine. As long as she’s fine, the girls will be fine.” You built me to be fine.

I was not built to handle Kelly’s death.

When you died, I remember thinking this was our family’s pound of flesh. The sacrifice now that would protect us from more hurt later. This was what you designed. What was the point of you leaving us if, 23 years later, there would be two more little girls wondering why they don’t get to have a mama. Incomplete structures. You didn’t teach me how to answer them; not in a way that makes sense. You left and I was unfinished. All the years we spent fighting, you couldn’t have taken a time out and slipped that in the blueprint? I know that this feeling is stupid, but it’s honest.

For over two decades, I’ve wondered if I’ve become someone you are proud of. Kind people will say yes. But we know better. Many would…