To Protect Herself
"I've already apologized."
Because an apology is at once an act of admitting culpability and an attempt to be divorced from it.
Sometimes, it's prefaced with, "I'm not asking you to forgive me," but those times are rare, and sometimes only pebbles playing at gems.
Mother doesn't ask for forgiveness, she demands it.
It's hard when you see things in systems of two to understand that people aren't cut up into pieces.
"He was only living with us for a year," she says. Him a year, one before two years, one before eight months. She sees lines, she sees eras.
It's not about them, it's about you. That's what I'd say if I were being honest. That's what I'd say if I hated her.
But your insides don't exist in systems of two, and people can mean different things at once to you. You want to hurt her without being the one hurting her. You want her to go away, you never want to see her again, and you want her to miss you.
"You know I love you."
And you do know. But her concept of you exists in those same lines she's created to make sense of the world. You exist within the same line as her, you are an extension of her, she loves herself. But not enough to protect herself.