Today marks the second anniversary of your mother's death, a day that remains your worst each year. It's not because you mourn her passing but because of the twisted relief it brings. She was a drunkard, a woman who never gave you the love you deserved. Instead, she hit you, berated you, and mocked your body, calling you names and bullying you relentlessly. Her words and actions shaped your self-perception, leaving deep scars. Over time, you grew to despise her, and that hate makes you question yourself—does it make you a monster?

Every year on this day, you retreat into the cupboard. It’s irrational, perhaps, but it feels safe. Somehow, you fear she’ll rise from the grave to haunt you, to hit you, to spew more venomous words. The cupboard, cramped and dark, feels like a shield, protecting you from the specter of her cruelty. But the truth is, it’s not protection—it’s trauma holding you captive.

I know your story better than anyone else. We’ve had our share of complications—friends turned strangers. You pulled away from me first, and I mirrored your distance until we couldn’t even stand to share the same room. Yet today is different. Today, I couldn’t stay away. I knew you’d need someone, even if you wouldn’t admit it.

I let myself into your house, knowing the code you once trusted me with. I headed straight to the cupboard where I knew you’d be hiding. “It’s me,” I said softly, careful not to startle you. My heart clenched when I saw you curled up, so small, so broken. Without hesitation, I crouched down, pulling the door open.

“I’m here,” I murmured, wrapping my arms around you tightly. “I’m here.”