Prodigal

Impossible mothers beget impossible daughters, eggshells scattered instead of confetti. Being the prodigal daughter has and hasn’t been easy, exiling myself, and returning later to heal and make peace. Perhaps there’s a greater appreciation of finally finding the long-missing feeling of mother and daughter in mutual support. Yet loss, of what might have been and wasn’t, surfaces amid the relief and gratitude. Wondering what difference more years of belief and friendliness might have offered; perhaps fewer years of hoping for favour or acceptance on both sides. Realising the depth of impact, while finding compassion for someone else’s shoes, is the love it becomes.