You should know me better.

  Not because I explain myself well,

  but because I came from you.

  I learned how to notice people

  by watching you.

  I learned how to listen,

  how to read between silences,

  how to recognize when someone

  is asking to be held instead of corrected.

  That’s why it hurts—

  not loudly,

  not dramatically—

  but in that dull, persistent way

  that settles when expectation meets reality.

  I wish you would read my stories.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Not to critique them,

  not to improve them,

  but to understand where I live.

  I built my favorite one

  from an idea that was yours.

  I thought you’d hear yourself in it.

  When I talk about my day,

  I don’t need a response.

  I don’t need solutions.

  I need presence.

  The kind that says

  I’m here. I see you.

  Because if I had a daughter,

  I would know better.

  I would know she wasn’t hard to love.

  I would know she was worth

  the time,

  the patience,

  the pause.

  I would read her words carefully.

  I would listen without sharpening my voice.

  I would choose curiosity over correction.

  You should know that too.

  Not because I demand it—

  but because I am proof

  you were capable of teaching it.