I tell myself I’ll never miss you. That when you left it was the easiest thing in the world to move on. Most of me did, but you kept part of me.
I dream that there is a little world somewhere, full of flowers and sun, where you and I still do all of those things I pretend I don’t miss.
I tell myself that your voice is missing from my head, that I can’t remember the wrinkles on your skin, the smell of your perfume and make up, the way you’d laugh at the dumbest jokes for hours.
I don’t miss you, Mom, and none of this ever meant anything to me.