The stale taste of dry tobacco scratched the lump that had formed in her tender throat. Folding the letter back up she carefully returned it to the envelope it had come from and tucked it into her journal as though it were merely a bookmark. Wiping a tear from her eye she took another long drag of the filthy cigarette she held in her hand until she could feel the nicotine clawing at the very furthest corners of her lungs. Letting out a slow exhale the smoke trickled from her mouth and lingered above her head in a thick smog that blanketed her bedroom.
Dropping her head into her hands, she began processing all that she had read in the letter from her mother.
It was love, formed in ink that was swirled across once blank pages. Between the lines of every sentence was every thing she needed to hear. Everything she struggled to find the words to tell her own children. Every thing that she once was so far from understanding.
Her mother, she simply wanted the best for her. The same best that she too wanted for her own children.
She knew now, more than ever, that she didn’t always know how to give her children the best. When was it best to say no? Best to say yes? Best to let them stay up for one last bedtime delaying snuggle? Best to put her foot down and send them to bed? Best to help them out of the hole they had fallen into? Best to let them learn how to climb out of said hole?
As a mother she made all of her decisions with the best of intentions, but that didn’t always mean they were the best of decisions.
Suddenly it dawned her, that her mother, was indeed a mother too.