My Bad

I know I called you fat, criticized the way you looked in jeans, particularly from the back. That roll around your middle—I know it hurt when I said it was permanent. Your grandmother had that midriff too.

Remember her at 67 in your graduation photo?

You are four years older than she was then. you made her dresses in pretty fabrics to stretch across her middle. Did you love her less when she was more?

Also, the wrinkles and your saggy neck. It’s so damn tempting for me to focus on the folds, to mourn the taut tanned flesh you used to flash around. I’m sorry you feel old, but remember your mother didn’t get to age, take comfort in the years you got she didn’t.

Did I make you take the first job that was offered?

Did I tell you money would compensate for feeling bored or terrified, or terrified and bored, in equal measure sometimes all at once? Did you believe me when I said you’d never succeed without a man to get you clients? I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for all those men I talked you into falling for. They were dramatic, yes, flashy smiles and smooth tongues. I let you fantasize about forever when they were only good enough. Forgive me. I let you settle.

Those masks I made you wear—the sultry student, pretty lawyer, good daughter, complacent companion, know-it-all—I’m sorry I dressed you in disguise.

I told you Saturdays would bring unrelenting suffering unless you had a project or someplace to go. I told you that you had no friends, no one to talk to, life an endless game of show-and-tell and you with nothing much to tell.

I lied. I was afraid to tell the truth. I was afraid you would leave unless I kept you entertained, running, judging, always on the move. Don’t move.