I don’t honestly know why I’m bothering to write you this.
I’m so tired of waiting for you to step up and actually be my mother. I mean, sure, you pay for my clothes and food and let me live in your house, but that doesn’t make you a parent. I’m realizing more and more in the therapy that you forced me into so that I could work out my “issues” that you’ve never really been my mother.
Before you left dad, he was the maternal parent and it drove me insane because I kept waiting for you to learn from him or something and actually show that you cared enough to prioritize our family in your life. I never realized how much he loved me and how thoughtful and wonderful a parent he was until I moved in with you full-time.
As long as I can remember, our entire family has been about you. We’ve moved 5 times in the past seventeen years to follow your career, and never once was any one else’s opinion considered in those decisions. When you and dad split, I thought living with you would be better, I though it was his fault and that I’d be miserable living with him. Sure, I may not have been ecstatic all the time, but at least he would have made time for me, asked me how my day went when I got home from school and showed that he cared.
Now you’re dating someone new, and he’s nice and rich, but you shut me out so much that I have no idea what your relationship is. I understand it’s your relationship, but you don’t understand that it affects me too. It kills me that every time you go out, I wonder if you’re going to come back home with a ring on your finger and tell me we’re moving again. I’m leaving for college in seventeen months, and then my childhood will be over. You couldn’t care less.
I hate you for never listening when I try to tell you how much you’ve hurt me, how much I love you and want you to be a part of my life, how I want to spend time with you and get to know you as my mother. I hate that you lie to me constantly, and that I’ve started lying to you in return. I hate that you can’t read me. I hate that when I’m sitting in my room crying myself to sleep every other night, you just sit outside and talk to your boyfriend on the phone about how ungrateful I am. I hate that I feel like reading your emails is the only way I can have any idea of what’s going on in your life and I hate the way I feel once I’ve closed the computer again.
You’re my mother in the most basic, biological sense of the word, but I need you to be my mother in every possible way. I need you to care. I need you to give me hope that you ~can~ care about me, because I have no evidence from the past to prove it.
I love you, Mom. I need you to love me too.