My dear sweet girl,

I’m sorry for being such a terrible mother. I’ve always dreaded the day you would leave me behind in this old brick house with too many rooms. That day came quicker than I thought it would. 

I spent my whole life hungering for something to finally fill the unbearable emptiness that weighed heavy on my chest. One day, the hunger pains grew so loud and violent that I could scarcely hear myself think. Something had to be done. So I took a meat cleaver and sliced off my right pinky finger. I wrapped a string of dental floss tightly around the stump and cauterized the wound with an iron rod.

You grew from my pinky like the severed limb of a starfish. 

My pinky healed eventually. The nub turned mottled purple and then blood red, before finally sprouting into a full appendage, as though the incident had never happened. Sometimes I fantasize about what if it never grew back? If I re-opened the healed wound, could I take you back, fuse you to my hand? Protect you from the world? 

I tried to give you a better childhood than I had. As a kid, my clothes were ratty and dirty and I was desperately ashamed. When I started working as a hostess, I splurged on trips to the grocery store. I gained ten pounds in the first couple months of sophomore year and my boyfriend, a second-year senior named Henry, told me I was getting chubby as he pinched my stomach fat between his fingers. After school that day, I ate a whole tub of cookie dough ice cream, letting the sweetness cover the taste of self-repulsion bubbling up in the back of my throat. Aunty Mia found me crying on the floor in front of the fridge later that night and told me she would help. We crouched on the cool ceramic tile together as she taught me how to stick my fingers down my throat and erase the mistakes of one too many corner store sweets. 

I swore that my own child would never find herself in the same position. You were such a delicate child – dainty and slender. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous. I told you how perfect your body was as we laid together in my queen sized bed, “You’re already so skinny. You’ll never have to starve yourself.” You didn’t respond, only burrowed your head deeper into my chest and tightened your grip around my arm. 

One day, your preschool teacher called me with the news that you were being sent home for biting the other children. You averted your gaze when I came to pick you up and didn’t say a single word during the car ride home. I asked you what happened a million different ways, my voice sweet as honey, but your mouth remained clamped shut. When we got back, you bolted behind the couch and curled up into a little ball, sobs wracking your tiny body. I finally coaxed you out an hour later, my anger long given way to desperate pleading. I held you tight in my arms and pried your lips apart so I could shine a flashlight down your throat. I searched for remnants of flesh stuck between your molars, but you had devoured every last morsel. 

I couldn’t help but blame myself. You inherited my insatiable appetite. You possessed the same gluttonous impulse to consume everything within reach. It was especially hard for you, such a sensitive soul. You were always concerned with things larger than yourself.

Of your many anxious preoccupations, death was our most frequent topic of conversation. You were always an exceedingly morbid child. You would cling to me in the mornings, begging me not to die while I was away at work. “I can’t promise I won’t die because there’s always the possibility I choke on a grape or get into a car accident, but I probably won’t. I probably won’t die today. Someday I will, when you’re all grown up. That’s a long ways away,” I reassured you. You let me hold you as you cried, rubbing small circles into your back. I relished those last few moments with you, savoring the warmth of your affection before the long day apart. 

Our relationship soured as adolescence enveloped you. One of my last cherished memories of your childhood was during our trip to the Oregon Coast. You were twelve and wanted to be a marine biologist, so we went to a rocky beach famous for its tidepools. The beach was littered with colorful rocks. You knelt down and picked one up, revealing five stiff, spindly legs. They were dead starfish. Thousands of starfish corpses covered the shore, twisted and brittle. 

The only other living soul on the beach was a fisherman on the dock. “They’re a locust,” he told us when we inquired about the starfish. The plague of starfish had decimated local shellfish populations and his business was struggling to survive. “Eat everything in their path. We send divers to haul em up and leave em out to dry.”

You picked up the starfish one by one, admiring the colors and textures. Some had already dried out, crumbling to dust in your hands. Others still had slimy centers and twitching limbs. You filled your trouser pockets with starfish corpses. They disintegrated almost immediately, so I filled a small vial with the dust from your pockets for you to remember the day by. Afterwards, I scrubbed at your skin in the shower for hours, but the scent of sulfur still lingered on your scalp when I rested my chin on the top of your head. 

I don’t know what happened but after that trip, our relationship seemed to take a turn for the worse. You pulled away from me. You tuned me out, burying your head in a book and barely glancing up at the sound of my voice. At first, I told myself that it was only typical teenage angst, but soon I realized the extent of your behavior was far worse than I imagined. 

You were skinny, too skinny. I consulted all the doctors, nutritionists, and therapists that I could find. I wanted to make sure you were healthy. I packed you the same lunch every day to accommodate your picky diet. Still, I found your lunch half eaten at the bottom of the trash can. When confronted, you insisted that you went out for lunch with your friends instead, gorging yourself on fried chicken and flavored milkshakes. I didn’t believe you, how could I, when I went through the exact same thing at your age?

You lied to every specialist I took you to, so I had to set them straight, make sure they knew how dangerous your illness was. I spent hours on the phone with your therapist, debriefing your behavior. You were a master manipulator. I fell for it too, the way your eyebrows knit together in distress and your eyes glossed over with tears when I confronted you about your lies. I read your diary when I got the chance, hoping to get a glimpse into your head. You hid the silver bound book in new places, but I always found your hiding spots.

I tried to give you your space, but I never knew how a mother was supposed to act. No one ever taught me. Growing up, I didn’t have a curfew, my mother never asked me where I was going or when I was coming home. Most nights, my friends and I would go out to the woods just past the town limits and drink until we could barely walk. There were always a couple creepy old men hanging around who would buy us booze in the hopes that one of us girls would someday get too drunk and make the mistake of going home with him. Our inhibitions were dulled, we would hop in the back of some guy’s truck and drag main street for a couple hours, killing time. Sometimes we would go to the Wild Horse, a local bar that served anyone. There were sex workers there, out of towners that traveled on a circuit going club to club. We would drink and some of the boys would get lap dances, maybe even more. I felt sorry for those women, and wondered how badly their mothers messed up for their daughters to land in a place like that.

Did I do enough to protect you? You were always hungry like me, thirsty for love and affection. I wonder if I was the one that drove you into Darcie’s arms. 

At first, I only knew her as your boss. I thought it was nice that you had a mentor at work, someone who cared so much to see you succeed. She lavished you with expensive meals and excessive flattery. Even when your relationship turned physical, Darcie seemed better than the type you usually went for.  She was soft, gentle, and barely an inch taller than you. She was attentive, attuned to your sensitivity and mood swings. She would never hurt you, I reassured myself. You were always so mature for your age; it made sense that you would end up with someone older.

 Soon though, you stopped coming by for dinners and started avoiding my calls. You were lost in your thoughts the few moments I had you to myself. When we argued, I heard her words creep out of your mouth as though they belonged to you. “Why are you always trying to interfere in my life?” You would snap back if I asked about her. 

You tried so hard to maintain the facade of your relationship, but every once and a while, you would crack and reveal the lava bubbling up beneath your smooth exterior. You would come to me in tears, like when you were little. You wouldn’t say much, but my imagination conjured up the worst. 

You would be my baby girl again on those nights, huddled under the covers while I stroked your hair. “Please, Mama, please don’t let me go back to her,” you begged. I promised that I wouldn’t, holding you until you fell asleep. In the early hours of the morning, you would find a moment to slip out and return her many missed calls. A few sweet words later and you were hers again.

I worry about your declining health. She wants you to be weak and pliable, scared and tiny. A few weeks ago, I came by your apartment, but Darcie answered the door. She tried to brush me off, insisting that you were unwell, and besides, I was no longer welcome in your home. I barrelled past her and through the bedroom door. Your crumpled body was sprawled across the bed, legs tangled in the sheets. The outline of a skeleton peeking through your translucent skin. I caressed my hand against your flushed cheek. Your skin was hot to the touch despite the cool breeze of the overhead fan. You didn’t wake up. 

Her hands grasped my shoulders tightly as she steered me out the front door, “She’ll recover faster without you here. Your presence – it’s only a stressor.” I’ve tried to come by since then, since you stopped answering my calls. No one responds when I knock, even when I pound on the door for what feels like hours. 

It was slow and insidious the way she stole you away from me. Come back to me, Liliana. My dear sweet girl, I’ve only ever wanted the best for you.

Love,

Mama