I don’t listen to you most of the time, and yet I tell you that you matter to me. I don’t always meet your expectations, and yet I tell you I’ll try. I cause you the most pain, and yet you still put up with me. I try to tell you the very least of details in my non-adventurous life, and yet you go out of your way to figure out my puzzle. When I cry, you’re the first to comfort me. You’re always the first. When you and my father were getting divorced, you put away your own emotions to make sure that I was okay.

Why? I don’t deserve it, I never asked for it. I mean, it’s expected, and yet I don’t understand why you deal with me. How do you have the patience to show me that you care about me than yourself? There was a time when all I did was talk about you behind your back—word after word, sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph, day after day. I liked to convince myself that it was normal, that a teenager is supposed to talk bad about their mom. It’s not like I never said anything good about you, but the majority of the time, I didn’t have to patience to see you the way you saw me. I didn’t have the selflessness that shined brighter than the sun in you growing in me. And yet, when you found out about my ignorance, you only showed me forgiveness.

You only showed me kindness and to this day, I don’t understand why. If someone did that to me, someone I trusted and cared for, I wouldn’t be able to do that. I guess that just means I’m not as mature, or I’m just downright selfish, but I never did tell you thank you. I never did tell you that I didn’t deserve your grace, your mercy. It’s something I may never understand, but I want you to know that I do notice. And even though I know my promises mean nothing, I promise you I will never do it again. I can’t promise I won’t ever take advantage of your forgiveness, but I can promise you that I notice when you share the gift with me. I won’t be able to repay you, but in three simple words: I love you.