Matriarch

She stands at the mirror, sunlight spilling across her face like an unwanted truth.

Isn’t it strange? How becoming yourself can feel so much like breaking someone else’s heart?

Her mother’s voice still lives inside her—soft at first, then sharp. Both a warning and a wound. They used to move in sync, orbiting the same small world of shared stories and stubborn love.

Now the ache between them feels inherited, like something passed down through blood and habit. She grieves what they lost—not just the gentleness, but the chance to be seen. And yet, beneath the ache, there’s a quiet determination blooming.

She sees the patterns etched in the women before her—the swallowed anger, the dimmed dreams—and she gathers their ghosts like lessons.

Her heart trembles, but it’s facing forward. In the ruin of what was, she plants something new.

A promise. A vow.

That the girl her mother raised will choose softness anyway.