You were what a mother should be. I miss the nights when you read me bedtime stories before I went to sleep. I remember one night you came in my room worried. You swore you heard me crying, but nothing was wrong. Later that night I did cry in pain and you ran in, again, this time to take care of me. I don’t remember why, but it seemed like magic. You knew before anything was actually wrong. Maybe you still remember that strange night. I need to ask you about it. The mother I lived with is no mother to me or anyone else it seems.

By Carter Moore