She noticed it first, of course. Your mother.
You used to swear you’d be nothing like him. The slammed doors. The silence that filled a room like smoke. The way he loved her—fierce, then fractured, then not at all. You built yourself in opposition: softer, louder with your feelings, quicker to say I’m sorry . You thought love was a choice you could make differently. Your Mother-s Son -2023-
You don’t realize you’re becoming him until the moment you already are. She noticed it first, of course
In 2023, the mirrors have sharp edges. You stand in front of one, razor in hand, and for a split second—just a flicker—you see his jawline under yours. The same tired crease between the brows. The way you hold your coffee mug, thumb hooked over the rim like a man waiting for bad news. The slammed doors
You are not him. You know this. You haven’t run. You haven’t raised your voice in anger—not like that. You show up. You call her every Sunday. You are trying.