the unopened letter

Geachte Mama,
... Talking about you is the hardest thing for me to do. Because I don't have mountains of praise for you without writing all the anger that I feel for you. Because I can't see you like the other kids saw theirs. Because  I hate you.

I didn't see you as my mother everytime you looked down on me. I couldn't feel you as a mother everytime you use your hand to hurt my body and your tongue to hurt my feelings.

Time goes by. I am getting bigger, you are getting old. And one day you asked me to shower you because you are too sick to do that. As I showered her head, I saw the collapse of a tirany. And reveal the very beginning layer of your life.

You have the same hurt as mine. Much worse than mine. And it made you build another you. To survive. To give what you couldn't have to the people you love. Your parents, your siblings, and your kids. I feel for you.
And I forgive you.

I am sorry for not giving you happiness to heal the wound. I never give you enough food, enough money, and the top of all not enough hugs. May prayers could keep you save and warm in His arm. in this life, in the other life.
I love you.