Mom.

I don't write about you a lot. In fact, never.

It is not because you're any less important than Father or because you're not worth it. And it is not because I don't love you. No, it is because your story is one that needs time to breathe, time to forgive itself. And I'm not sure I forgive you for it yet, nor am I sure I can forgive myself for being too young and weak at the time to save you from the despair you've eternally etched across your soul.

But I have not forgotten.

And one day, the words will unravel themselves onto this screen or perhaps a crisp sheet of lined paper, whether pixelated or inked, more inconsequential and paltry than the story they're meant to tell.