I lied to you all the time, mom. I brazenly confessed fictional sins and preened in the spotlight created by your displeasure. Being a hopelessly undesirable child, I welcomed your anger with the desperate delusion of a sadly inept and unconvincing actress intoxicated by the possibility of fooling an audience. You believed me, which was nice. I never really believed myself.

I remember silly things about you. In elementary school, you’d braid my hair and call me ‘honey’. Romantic movies always made you cry awkwardly. After daddy left, however, you clung to me and cried with a candid, undignified abandon. You were beautiful then, and I loved you. Later, I remember how you began to hide behind humourless lips, trapped within a restrictive illusion more elaborate than my own. My hair was dark like daddy’s, so you stopped braiding it. I think your love for me left with him.

People think I am a good person, mom. They smile at me while I judge them. I lie to them like I lied to you. However, the difference is that I would kill all of them without remorse, every single one of them, if doing so would bring you back to me.