I Waited for My Mother to Open the Door. She Never Did.

Silence was her answer, and I carried it for years.

I feel invisible and yet so seen by me that it makes me cringe at the idea that I am in need of anyone else.

The idea that I must shout to be heard, to be seen, makes me resort back to when I was a child in my family—a family with too many mouths to feed and way too many mouths to be heard all at once.

I used to fault my mother for closing the door at the end of the night to her bedroom and putting a strict rule of not entering after hours. No exceptions.

Not even if you peed your bed or threw up all over the sheets. You just cleaned yourself up and told her about it in the morning.

I understand the need to be unseen as a mom—especially by the end of the day. But my doors at my house are always open.

And I am kicked so much in the middle of the night by tiny toes who tiptoe into my bedroom late at night because they heard the wind rustling the trees a bit too much for their liking.

But still—
I am in a time now where all I want is for my mother’s door to be open to me.

But I am alone.

Alone in the separation of my husband.
Alone in the understanding of the depth of that grief—
The one I caused
Because I chose to move on.

Alone in work.
Alone in friendships.
Alone in raising my children.
Alone in wanting to be loved.

And all I want to do is close my door to it all—
Because that’s what my mom did.

---

I don’t think I remember the last time I was truly hugged by my mother—
Where I felt her bones press into my heart,
Allowing it to restart.

I can’t even recall if she did that
When I was young—
And alone—
In the abuse of my brother.

I remember nothing.

I am nothing.

Invisibly strong—
A requirement that was bestowed upon me as a child
Holding wet sheets
In front of a closed door.

---

Over time, I have learned—
That doors don’t open
Just because you need them to.

A need that seems so basic to others
Becomes tangled and complicated for me.

I find myself standing before these heavy, weighted options—
Doors I could push through if I wanted to—
Yet I hesitate.

I wonder—
What waits on the other side?
Would it be warmth,
Relief,
Connection—
The comfort I crave
But rarely let myself believe in?

Or would it be worse than what I already carry—
Disappointment.
Rejection.
Proof that what I fear most is true—
That I am not enough.

So I stay.

On this side.

Frozen.

Not because I can’t open the door—
But because the cost
Of what might be behind it
Feels unbearable.

I know too well—
How doors can stay closed
No matter how hard you wish them open.

And the silence behind them—
It teaches you
Not to knock.
Not to try.

---

But some days—
I feel it—
The aching pull to reach for the handle.

To see for myself
If what I’ve been fearing all this time
Was the emptiness behind the door—
Or the emptiness
Of never opening it at all.

---

I think—
That’s why I stayed in my marriage
As long as I did.

Because the idea of opening myself
To something new—
Something unknown—
Was more terrifying
Than staying in something broken.

The comfort I built—
Even if it was cracked—
Felt safer
Than risking
What waited on the other side.

---

And yet—
Here I am.

In the loneliness I feared.

---

This loneliness—
Is familiar.

It was my shield
When I was young—
In that house
Where my needs were left unnoticed.

Where the only comfort I had
Was a pen and paper—
Journaling my way
Through the ache of being unseen.

---

There was a night—
I remember it clearly—
When I tore a sheet from my journal—
Scrawled out my heart
In crooked letters—
And pushed it under my mother’s door.

My hands shook.
My breath held.

I slipped back to bed—
The top bunk—
Where the ceiling felt closer
Than she ever did.

I lay there—
Cocooned in the warmth of my blankets—
Eyes wide open,
Heart pounding—

This time, I thought,
This time she’ll see me.
She’ll open the door.
She’ll say something—anything—
And my unbearable loneliness—
Will be nothing more
Than an overreaction.

Because at least then—
I would be noticed.

---

But morning came.
And then it went.

And nothing was said.
Not a word.

---

And I learned—
That even in writing—
I would be left
With only myself.

But I kept writing.

Because what else does a child do—
When no one opens the door?

---

I wrote through the silence.
I wrote through the years.
I wrote myself—
Out of childhood
And into a marriage
Where the door was closed—
But this time—
I was the one
Pulling it shut.

---

I stayed
Because staying
Was familiar—
Because I had already learned
That what’s behind a door
Can hurt worse
Than the loneliness
In front of it.

So I stayed—
Not because it was good—
But because it was known.

---

But the truth is—
Loneliness
Had always been with me.

It was the shield
I learned to carry.
It was the blanket
I hid beneath.

It was the silence
That followed me—
From my mother’s door
To my husband’s bed.

---

And now—
Here I am.
Alone.

But not in the way
I feared.

---

Because this time—
I am not waiting
On the other side of a door—
Hoping someone else
Will open it.

This time—
I am the one
Holding the handle.

I am the one choosing—
If it stays closed—
Or swings wide.

---

And I choose—
To write it open.

Because writing—
Has always been a note
Under a door—
But now—
I’m the one
Deciding
Where it leads.

---

Because now I know—

Maybe doors don’t always open
Because you need them to—
Maybe they open
Because you choose
To turn the handle.

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