Inheritance

I don't understand how a mom whose mom

just watched her go through painful wifehood

and bruised, thankless motherhood

would do the same to her daughter.

How does sorrow not become warning?

How does the hurt not sharpen into refusal?

How does she sit still,

while her child drowns in the same silence

she once choked on?

They say pain teaches.

But some just learn how to pass it down—

with folded towels, tight smiles,

and casseroles that taste like surrender.

She hands over the burden like it's heirloom.

As if love means letting it happen again,

but quieter this time.

I set the table, like she taught me.

Bite back the scream, like she showed me.

And every time I bleed from biting,

I wonder if she ever sees

how familiar I must look.

Like looking in a mirror,

but choosing to blink.