Mom, do you love me enough to like me?

Illustration: Kaiser Aaron Caya

Dear Mother,

Do you like me?

From the moment you held me close, you felt the burden of responsibility dawning upon you for the first time. Like a somber mantle—stretching from dales to rivers—it engulfed your trembling arms with uncertainty and quiet despair. Bloodied, my weight seemed to carry a sense of loss—a wound that bled the dreams you once cherished and every unmet expectation you harbored. Did I take that away from you? 

You were once a girl, dreaming of rainbows and Prince Charming; strolling through vibrant hues of dahlias in the midst of spring’s blossom. Yet when the harsh winter arrived, the flowers withered, fading on the hollow ground. You realized those days were nothing but a short-lived fairy tale, doomed to endure the fate of your bearer. 

Do you like me, still?

I am the infant who embodies your mother's curse. She laughs at your demise, saying we are too much alike. Is it your dark, lustrous hair filled with secrets that bind us? Is it your stinging, parched lips sealed tight, afraid of talking back? Is it your sweaty, cold palms that weigh heavy in the dead of the summer night? Or is it your eyes, blazing with resentment, that make us the same person?

Maybe I was born to inherit your rage—a relentless flame that refuses to wane. So every time you stare at me with that look from your mother, you are haunted by the mirror from years ago. After all, it is your eyes, etched on my face, that map all of your unspoken insecurities—carrying your doubts and regrets.

Mom, I want to know if you like me just a little bit.

I know you love me. Although our relationship is scarred and bruised, I know you love me still. You bore me home when my fragile frame faltered in the midst of the crowd; you cooked meals that soothed my soul when loneliness besotted me. Even after your roaring words struck me, you would still slice crisp apples for me as if nothing had happened. 

When tears streamed down after stumbling, you would scold me, but your words were always followed by a gentle touch. When I felt ugly, you would always braid my hair, though your lips would still utter insults. And when my father's anger loomed, you shielded me with your weak, fragile back. 

But do you love me enough to like me?

Does your love run deep enough to reach the grave and accept my naked self to behold my vulnerable state? Do you love me enough to lick my wounds and tend to my scars without revulsion? Is your love worth washing my back for once, and caressing the bruises, all battered by life’s cruel luck? Is your love enough to grant me a refuge under your roof, even if it means crawling to your den just for tonight? 

Mom, can you love me enough to envelop me back into your womb and nurture me to wholeness, so that this second time around, you might learn how to like me? 

Sincerely,

Your daughter

Writer: Valerie Acupado