My darling, my daughter. Do you think that I don't see you? In the back of that cafe, where you said we would have coffee together and chat, but our date slipped your mind. I am there, as I have always been, a loving hand on your shoulder, smiles from strangers, and a good hug on a hard day. That was me. I see you and I know the very crevices and shadows of your heart, of the darkest dustiest hidden parts of you, and I love you anyways. I sent my perfect son to die for you, to redeem you, to give you hope and a reason to live because I couldn't stand the thought of you without me. I see your brokenness, when you look in the mirror and you aren't satisfied with what you see. I painted you that way, molded you exactly so, down to every fingernail and every eyelash. I watch as you splash creams and inks onto your skin, browns and pinks and reds, never satisfied. The way your eyelids fall when you blink, and the way your lips part just right when you smile, the pigment in your ...