How couldn’t you tell when I lied to you? How couldn’t you tell that I wasn’t so intelligent to have gotten all those A grades? How couldn’t you tell that I had changed from your sweet little girl to a wild thing? How couldn’t you tell that I was one month pregnant?
Momma, should I blame you for having had so much faith in me? Should I blame you for having thought that I was a saint? Should I blame you for having had so much trust in me? Should I blame for not having seen through my very shallow self? Oh, Momma!
I’ve wallowed in blame displacement and it hasn’t helped take the weight of the guilt off my heart. I’ve come to accept that although Samantha played a huge role in my destructive lifestyle, she was not to blame for everything.
It was I that followed her to the night clubs. It was I that excitedly wrapped a blunt. It was I that undressed for the rich old men. It was I that slept my way to high grades in school. It was I that was a liar. It was I that deeply inhaled the ‘coke’ with my eyes closed in sheer pleasure. It was I that made up my mind to have an abortion. It was I, Momma; it was I.
Now I have to ‘live’ with my mistakes for the rest of my dead life. Samantha said she had found salvation; I doubt if I ever will. Perhaps if I had lived, I would have changed. I tell myself so, but I doubt it.
Now, I realize that you were trying to make me live a good life for my own good. Come visit me soon, Momma. I love you.
Your daughter before,