Here’s a word for you to think about; addiction. Nine letters. Nine kids. Nine chances to be a mother. Nine. Nine weeks is how old I was when you sold me. Nine. Nine was the age I was the last time I saw you. Nine. Nine is the age you thought I had turned on my seventh birthday. Nine. Nine letters in heartless, the best adjective to describe you.
Brittany. The name you gave me. Eight letters. Eight. Eight siblings I’ll never be close to. Eight. Eight times you have tried to contact me over the years.
Seven. Seven times you have been in rehab. Seven. Seven letters in forgive, something I can not bring myself to do. Seven. Seven letters in grandma, the one who saved me.
Six. Six times you have told me you loved me. Six. Six different guys who could be my father.
Five. Five was the age I entered Kindergarten but you were not there to see. Five. Five was the number of times you said you would change but never did.
Four. Four letters in love, something you have never truly showed. Four. Four graduations of mine that you have not been to.
Three. Three letters in God, the one who has been there during these times. Three. The number of times we have fought in court for my siblings but lost. Three. Three letters in lie, which is all you do.
Two. Two parents is all I have ever wanted. Two. Two decades is what I have been through without you in my life.
One. One wish for you to just have been a mother to me.
-One of your many daughters