The second story I wrote, at my writers group meeting the other week, was prompted by the phrase “I’m not your mother”. Again it was just free writing and I had no clue where I was going to end up when my pen initially hit the paper. Five minutes seems like a long time when you’re waiting in a queue at the post office, but when you have to write a story it’s no time at all.
Of course some of the other’s in the group didn’t write a standalone tale, just the start of something bigger. But my instinct was that, if I have five minutes to write a story in then I shall write the whole of a story in that five minutes!
I call this one Mother.
I’m your father, but you will listen to me anyway!
Just because I had less to do with your journey into this world doesn’t mean I have any less of a say in how you run your life.
Every day I see you growing, and every day I see you becoming more like her. The way you look, the way you act, the way you talk.
All of the things you do are from her, and all of the things you do remind me of her. I wish it weren’t so but it is.
I just wish that for one day I could go without seeing her reflection rote large in your existence, but it’s not to be.
I love you so, and I miss your mother every day. She was everything to me and the accident haunts me every night.
I miss her so!