Releasing the Pain: A Poem

my mother manipulated me.
when I was in Delhi,
she called so many times,
soft words—
when will you come back?
I miss you
and etcetera, and etcetera.

I thought—
is this love-bombing?
maybe.
but still,
I got excited to be home.

I arrived at 3 in the morning,
heart expectant,
waiting for warmth,
for something lovely,
for the small things that say,
we’re glad you came.

but nothing was cooked,
nothing waiting—
though yes, it was early.
I told myself it’s understandable.
still,
it felt good to be back.

the next day,
she left for her trip,
and then it became clear.

I was summoned
not for love,
not for togetherness,
but so my father
would not have to cook.

he can cook—
but she thinks
it’s not nice for him to.

so here I am,
twice a day at the stove,
my shoulder aching,
my body numb,
stirring, chopping,
caring for someone
who doesn’t care for me.

and today,
as I stirred again,
drained and silent,
I remembered—
how she made me feel wanted,
how she painted April with longing,
how she asked me not to come
during Holi,
a festival of color and light,
because if I came in March,
I wouldn’t be free
to cook in April.

and no one would be home,
and that, apparently,
was the point.

I wish this was not true.
I wish I had loving parents.

but these parents
do not love me.
and I do not love them.

I’m not coming back soon.

--A Reworking of an SW Post by @LetsTry