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What the Heart Does

Cailey Tarriane

    Mother presented me with a knife at seven years old. Challenged me to unalive her with it, if she was such a horrible person. Showed me the door like I had never seen it before, as something that could serve as an exit. “If you want to leave, go on,” she urged me.
    I cried. I loved her and I didn’t know what to do. She called my heart a weakness, for not ending her as it was. From then on it was blamed for everything.
    All my decisions that made everyone step on me, wondering why I either felt too much or was completely heartless.
    It didn’t help that the front Mother put out to the world was Oscar-winning. On one summer day, her friends from book club and other normal activities talked about exchanging letters to their children.

    “It improves communication,” they said. “Sometimes writing to your children provides a space for you both to think about your words, rather than recklessly spitting them out.”
    Mother had to work on that. When she came home, she told me about the letter exchange idea. “I know we’re already best friends, but this can help us bond better,”she said excitedly. I nodded but said nothing.
    That evening, she shut my door, something that never happened before. The front of the door facing me felt weird.
    Finally, I had my privacy. Finally, I could breathe. A moment later, a letter slid under my door. Her normal parent friends probably gave her that idea.
    “Dear Maia.” The letter started.
    I read the rest. But before I knew it, angry tears were pushing its way down. Her normal parent friends surely did not write something like this. They were healthy. They were happy. Mother’s voice over spilled in her words. You’re not open with me, Maia. You’re not enough. I hope writing letters to me would change that.
    Shaking with fury, I took a pen and on a separate paper, I wrote this:
    “Dear Mom, we’ve never been close, so stop it. You blame my heart for making me want to do reckless things, or go against you. But all it ever did was keep me alive, for all these years. And you made me want to do the opposite.”
    After I reached her room, it took three tries before I successfully slid the letter under the door.

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