My mother had never reached out. Never called, never visited me. There were days when the notion had festered in my blood like a disease. But, as Whitney had said, what was meant to be, would be. Only time could paint the clearest picture, and time had showed me in striking pigments that my mother didn’t deserve me. She wasn’t worthy of my love. Once upon a time, I thought I missed her. But it was she who’d missed out on me. Not all mothers were meant to be caretakers. Not all monsters were meant to be rehabilitated. And not all love stories were meant to last.
