Sometimes I sit in silence and cry for her.

Have this need to cry for all the love she did not get, for the abandonment nights, for the neglect of her feelings.

Need to cry for every time she thought it was her fault, she had needs that could not be met. For all the times she thought she was the one to blame, because she demanded too much from everyone, when in reality, she demanded nothing at all.

Need to cry for the abuse and manipulation that the grown-ups pushed on her since she had memories. Being the throwing ball from one house to the other, the appendix, the excess, the kid from the previous marriage, the oldest daughter that should behave and just be grateful for all the things that she’d got, although she just needed to feel loved.

And it’s funny how, even with all that, she still loved then with all her heart. She still lived to please then and if they were alive, she would still be the punching bag, the bandage and the quick fix for everyone.

It was a tragedy to lose them, but at same time with the loss came understanding. With the distance came knowledge and the notion of freedom.

Freedom from your past, from your own demons. Freedom to acknowledge what happened and not let it crush you anymore, don’t let it dictate your life.

But she still cries, nonetheless. Looking into old pictures, missing the way the were, wishing that even after all, they would be here. She would trade the freedom for them, she knows she would. She would have found out another way to survive it. She would.

And that is love.