On a cold morning in December, I opened my eyes to the light of dawn in the hospital bed, and at last, I met my mother. She rocked me gently, smiling down at me with her tired eyes. Being loved was a good feeling. I should have known that good feelings don’t last.

My next memory was a mixture of mom’s perfume mixed with the sting of her slap. I loved her, even though she braided my hair with the same hands that hit me, and whispered that she was sorry with the same lips she used to spit venom that burned more than her hands ever did. And yes, I loved her, even as she whispered that she loved me and promised that she would never hit me again with that desperate, deranged look in her eye, carrying a trace of its past softness that only I could remember.

Today, I stand over her lifeless body, fresh blood still dripping from the tip of the kitchen knife. I vowed to free her from me, her worst regret, and today, she leaves this hell for someplace better. She was only 32, but she is free. She is freed from me, her only burden. And yet, I loved my mother because she was the only person I ever had.

I was only 16, standing on the ledge, and I couldn’t help but wonder: what would I do without her? But perhaps I would never need to find out.

On a hot day in the middle of summer, I closed my eyes as my head hit the ground, the last rays of sunlight ducking behind the horizon, and at last, mother, we are together again.