She was in her late forties when she sat down across from me. Polished, successful, composed — but her voice cracked when she said:
“I think… I think I believed it was my fault. That if I’d been easier to love, maybe my parents would’ve loved me better.”
And in that moment, she wasn’t a grown woman anymore. She was a little girl — waiting for someone to say, “It wasn’t you.”
So let me say it now.
To the child inside you — the one who still whispers in the quiet: “Maybe it was me” — this letter is for you.