Forgive

I stepped onto a porch, a sight familiar but foreign at the same time. Apparently, I had spent nearly six years living here, but that was over a decade ago. A childhood memory of a time when I was deprived of my real parents. Stolen away after my real mother gave birth to me by this woman… the one I called Mommy in the recesses of my memories.

That was all she was to me… Mommy. She never used her name, and when others spoke of it, it was like hearing about some stranger that had nothing to do with me. To me, she was more Mommy than my real mother, whom I couldn’t bring myself to call as such.

Having been given this journal after she died, it took me quite some time to gather the courage to read over it, and even more time to truly try to understand it. The reason that she took me away, the reason that I was in her care, and what compelled her to do such a thing.

People said that she was a deceptive, conniving person. That she took a large settlement from being victimized and then ran, using that money to build a fake life of comfort. But I couldn’t recall such frivolousness in her actions; there was always pain hiding behind the joy she exuded.

So I traveled to this house to see for myself – the place that I was raised.

I pushed open the front door, unlocked, and peered into a dark and silent home. Furnishings, aged and uncared for, still made it feel lived in, but empty all the same. No one had bothered to touch this place, the whole town knowing of the criminal who kidnapped a baby and lived here with him.

As my footsteps echoed through the rooms, I could feel vague memories pricking at my senses.

The scent and taste of freshly-made pancakes in the kitchen.

The rumble of footsteps and cries of Mommy carried through the halls and rooms. Cheers, laughter, arguments, crying and screaming – all echoing throughout the years.

A silhouette of Mommy and I next to the bookcase, figuring out what lessons to learn that day. And endless hours of us hunched over, playing with toys. Always together. Promises to never be apart.

I reached over and pulled out a book, looking upon its bright colors and words. Back when all I knew was written in these books. At that time, I didn’t care about what was right and wrong. As long as they were beside me. Her words were my entire world; her thoughts my adventure; her love, what raised me.

A tear dribbled onto the page, which made me rub my eye. I had been told to hate her for taking me away from my true family. That everything she did was in err. But I could tell, those times were innocent. It didn’t matter who it was from; it didn’t matter the intentions.

I placed the book down gently and continued to the next room. The door creaked loudly, not at all like years ago, when Mommy crept into my room to hold my hand. I didn’t know why she did it at the time, but it always made me felt safe and wanted. Like the fairies that I read about that watched over people, Mommy was always there. Always, until she wasn’t.

Slowly, I walked up to the bed, ignoring how dusty and moldy the room had become. Reaching toward the wall, I plucked a single picture from there and stared at it.

The time when Mommy tried so hard not to be herself, but to be like me. Yet again, just another thing she did, not to please herself but me.

Me. Me. Me.

Though I was a child, it was always what ‘I’ wanted from her. All the while, the pain of her past, the truth of our bond, everything gnawed at her. I smiled at the picture of curly blond hair upon crudely drawn stick people, fighting back another tear. Taking a few steps back, I left the room, holding the one thing I wanted to retrieve.

I walked out of the house, feeling like I had come to terms with a life that was now mere memories. It was still hard to forget, even after many years outside of these walls. And once I had left, the childish thoughts of being trapped were instantly forgotten. Figments of my imagination, whims of desire from a time when I knew nothing.

All those times when Mommy believed that she was being cold, they were now looked upon fondly by me. The worries that she had in her journal were far from the truth. It didn’t matter that she was a criminal nor how much my parents hated her. She loved me. She cared for me. Even if the ties were fake, the love felt real.

As my steps exited the front yard, more tears rolled down my eyes, and soon, I had to stop for a moment. In the remote forest where this home was, no one would care if I sobbed.

Because I felt cold now. I missed all the things that Mommy gave me. Even if she wasn’t my real one. Because no matter what anyone said…