This is stupid but I can't stop thinking about it. Like, it's not a big deal. It really isn't. But you know how sometimes you do something and it just… sits with you? And you play it over and over in your head and you try to figure out what went wrong? Not even wrong, just… off. My mom used to be an art critic. A REAL one, like, she wrote for actual newspapers and stuff before I was born. And then she had me, and she stopped. And she always says it was worth it, it was the best thing, my greatest masterpiece, blah blah blah. Which is sweet, I guess. But sometimes I wonder if she secretly regrets it. If she ever misses that part of her life. Like, did she trade being an Important Person for being My Mom? Anyway, so I’ve been painting a lot lately. Just for me, you know? It’s not like, gallery-worthy or anything. But I finished this one piece, and I was actually really proud of it. It’s abstract, lots of dark colors, a little messy, a little intense. It felt like… me. The real me, the one I feel like I'm finally figuring out now that I’m not living at home anymore. So I showed it to her. Not like, asking for a review or anything. Just, “Hey, look what I made.” And she looked at it. And she just kind of… nodded. Politely. Confused. Like she was looking at a painting that just wasn't making sense to her. No spark. No recognition. Just a blank, polite, "That's nice, honey." And that’s the stupid part. The part that keeps me up at 2 am. How can someone who knows you better than anyone else in the world, someone who literally GAVE UP her whole life for you, look at something that feels like your soul on a canvas and just… not see it? Not feel anything? It makes me wonder if she ever really saw me. Or if I’m just this blurry, half-finished picture that she settled for. And then I feel SO BAD for thinking that, because she's a good mom, she really is. But it just felt like the gap between who I am now and who she thinks I am is just, HUGE. And I don’t know how we bridge that. Or if we even can.