My mother wants grandchildren.

I look at her and I think of all the children she's raised, at all the scars that linger underneath my skin. I think of the kids she's raising for another woman, the way those children light up with joy when they see her, how they thrive in her presence, the way they can't help but love her. I wonder if the sadness that seeps into my bones and lingers in all my breaths is a type of jealousy. If the way I can feel my gaze slipping away to the wall behind her head, to that white space that swallows all thoughts, if the way I expand until I'm nothing but scattered molecules is my coping mechanism.

Do I stop feeling because to think of the way she's hurt me carries with it too much pain?

I wonder if my mother will ever know the extent of the wounds that live inside me. I have an overwhelming urge to scream into the dark sky until my throat is raw and nothing remains inside my mouth but the skeletons of long-forgotten cries for help. I wonder if my mother knows that love is not a thing you own, that it exists only as long as you nourish it, only for as long as you are worthy of it.

I wonder if she remembers the way she'd look at me when I was ten, the disappointment in her face as she told me that I was too negative, that I couldn't expect to get far in the world like that. I wonder if she knows how much I changed, how her words hung over my head at every conversation, how much I tried to smile instead of raging, how I molded myself into a perfect picture of positivity.

I sit at the kitchen table, as far away from her as I can manage, and wonder if she remembers how that particular conversation started. If she remembers that I'd had a bad day at school. I'd been told I needed glasses and a girl that was my friend was asking for more than I could give. I was tired and annoyed, and nine years old, barely able to see over the top of the cars that lined the street to my apartment building. I still stayed with my aunt after school because I wasn't old enough to watch my sister just yet.

My mom came home from work and I told her about my day. I don't know what I expected. I can't remember what it was that I was looking for. I don't know. I don't remember if I knew back then. All I know is that I told her I had a bad day and she looked at me and said, "so did I but you don't hear me complaining. You have to learn to be less negative."

So I did.

I wove myself into the pattern my mother wanted, smoothing out the flyaways, going over the spaces where the stitching wasn't quite right. I did my best at nine years old to become who she wanted me to be. The good student. The responsible sibling. The sensible spender. The perfect emotional support.

I don't know what person I would be with a different mother. I don't even know the person I will be with the mother I currently have. I know that it took me a long time to realize the depth of my hurt, the unfairness of the situations I was placed in. I know that my mother is capable of raising well-adjusted children. I've seen her do it with the children of other women, how lovingly she teaches those other kids that they are human, that they are valued, that they are worthy of respect.

I wonder what she'd do with a grandchild. I wonder if she'd love them so much that their bodies would have to be remodeled to accommodate her. I wonder if she'd love them just the right amount, enough to make them human but not so much that they became extensions of her.

I wonder how an arm can learn to be a person.

I wonder what would have happened if she loved just a little less and respected me just a little more.

I wonder if the journey to personhood hurts more or less than being nothing at all.