You can only learn what it is and stop putting your hand in it.

My mother is who she has always been; the cruelty in that cold house did not create her; it only, at last, let me see her clearly.

And seeing her plainly is what set me free.

I no longer lie awake wishing she were different.

I stopped, somewhere in the last six months, needing anything from her at all — her love, her regret, even her punishment.

The wall I built between us is not made of anger.