Hereafter, the truth is, I'm terrified of getting it wrong and reducing her to caricature, one-dimensional figure in tragedy of my own making. She was so much more than just a mother, a wife, a woman defined by the roles she played. She was whirlwind of contradictions, capable of breathtaking tenderness one moment and cutting cruelty the next. Fierce protector who smothered and abandoned me. How do you capture that kind of complexity on page? How do you reconcile the woman who read me bedtime stories with the woman who packed her bags and left without word? The pen trembles in my hand, conduit for all the unresolved anger, guilt, and yearning that churn inside me. Violation beneath some unspoken agreement.