To A,

You always asked if I was working hard. You asked if I was earning enough. You asked if I had a plan. You asked what other people were doing, where they were living, who they had become. But I do not remember you asking if I was happy. Maybe happiness sounded too soft to you. Maybe survival taught you that peace was a luxury and achievement was safer to measure. I understand that now more than I did when I was younger. But it still hurt. Because every time I came home tired, I felt like I had to present evidence that my life was worth respecting. A better job. A better title. A better answer. I wanted to tell you I was scared. I wanted to tell you I was lonely. I wanted to tell you that I was trying so hard to become someone you could be proud of, I forgot to ask whether I still liked myself. But the words never came out. So I smiled, said work was fine and carried it alone.