Letters to my Daughter: September 2, 2019

Being your mummy is nuanced: I pay bills, mete out my time prudently throughout the day, and ensure you have what you need. Days blend into each other. I avoid cheap coffee with an electric espresso machine under my desk. I should feel fortunate, but my heart is a black star folding into itself.

Your father bought a small house with an in-ground pool in the backyard and invited us to live with him for a while. The water is a deep emerald and your toys are kept in a broken bucket by the steps. You have a queen size bed in a room twice the size of your old room with a window facing the tepid green water in the backyard. What's left of our modest life before your father's house is stacked in boxes in the attic. I imagine taping them closed and shipping them back to Washington state. I don't understand why he wanted us here or even why I agreed.