At the moment, my parents are reading my book.
Here it is, I said. A ring-bound folder of My Life.
It was hard to write. But for them, it’s even harder to read. I at least, had a choice in telling my story. But however much I try to honour and protect them, it’s theirs as well.
Our family, laid bare. The tapestry of our history. The thoughts and experiences that unspoken, bind us together and tear us apart. Is this what you think? Is this who you are?
The portrait of a daughter. But more than this – a sinner too. It’s not just How’s your Weekend or Did You Try That Recipe or You Won’t Believe What Uncle Albert’s Gone And Done This Time. It’s the things I never wanted you to see. A face with the skin ripped off. A heart, beating and bloody and horribly exposed. My mistakes and my lies and my hopes and the things I left undone and the things I did and wish I could take back.
Shame and frailty and the weight of truth. The little girl curled up in her daddy’s arms with her eyes shut tight against the world. The grown-up who starts to understand when it’s almost too late. Gratitude and sadness and a love that engulfs you with grief.
I’m praying: ‘Here I am. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But tell me please, it’s all okay’.
I wrap it up and I smile awkwardly and then, I let it go.