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by Jennifer Hartmann

Father didn’t love me; Mom didn’t love me enough. I guess that was why I loved too much. I had a lot of loveless holes to fill.

“Mom.” My eyes begged for her to see me. To really see me. I loved her so much.

I’d come to terms with it. Some mothers weren’t capable of providing or nurturing, or seeing beyond their own self-preservation.

“I’ve been right in the center of them. You get back up every time you’re thrown down. You’re fighting for your life, in every sense of the word…and that’s fucking powerful.”

“I would have taken you back to my apartment,” I said darkly, teeth gritted, my fist still tangled in her hair. “And we wouldn’t have made it to the bedroom before I knew what your pussy tasted like.”

Warm breath coasted along the nape of my neck as Reed leaned in and whispered, “You look…so goddamn beautiful.”

“When you’re a parent, you’re consciously aware that these days are ahead, destined to find you. You try to prepare, and you think you’ll be ready, but it’s not possible. These moments always seem so damn far away at the time, and then—bam. No more piggyback rides, no more swimming lessons, no more birthday cake painting the walls. It’s like I blinked and you were older.”

I knew in that moment that I could do hard things.