Its for the better

A stack of paper is placed perfectly in the center of the dresser drawer that holds my mom's shirts. I pick up the papers, examining them and opening them."My baby Jade."

One of the pages starts like that, and immediately I burst into tears as I slowly read the note.

"My precious Jade, you are brighter than any other gem, and I hope you know that. I know this must be hard for you, but just know you couldn’t have done anything to help my cries. Jade, you are the only person I stayed longer for. And I know what I’ve done has you questioning why. Why could I let my baby girl go through such a thing alone? So I’m going to tell you why and where my pain started."

"Seventeen years ago, when I was pregnant with you, I was sixteen—a teenager. I never wanted to be pregnant, and I know how that sounds. It sounds like I didn’t want you, but baby, when I saw your beautiful green eyes, I knew I couldn’t give you up. But at sixteen, you’re still young; you miss out on life when you have a kid at that age. I held you in that hospital bed, and you were just smiling. You were my whole world."

"Your dad is your grandmother’s friend, Mark. He was thirty-two, and I was sixteen. You never knew your dad because I did my best to keep him out. I didn’t want to be with him, but he forced himself on me and continued to do so every night. When I was seventeen, I stood in front of the fridge door, debating whether to pick up your grandmother’s alcohol. I fell into drinking, and it became harder and harder to care for you. One night, I was holding you in my arms and passed out. When I woke up, you were crying on the ground because you had fallen. I knew then I needed to stop."

"Mark stopped doing things to me when I turned nineteen because I was 'getting older.' He was sick and would talk about my body: 'Baby, your breasts are getting bigger; I like that.' No one cared what he would say or do because he was rich and a man."

My hands tremble as I turn the page.

"I never want a man to do anything like that to you. I don’t ever want my baby to experience the things I did. I want you to have dreams to follow. When you turned three, we had a birthday party with a huge bounce house. I spent my whole check on it, but it was worth it to see your smile. Your smiles warmed me up, stretched my lips to a smile that almost touched my eyes. I’d do anything to see that smile because, in that moment, I could feel a little happiness too."

"At that party, Mark showed up and sat in his truck, watching you on the bounce house, licking his lips like a preying hyena. I immediately took you inside. You just cried and cried. I hated how I had to hide you from your dad, but that man was no father; he was a predator. I remember holding you on my shoulder, patting your back, and shushing you until he left. When I walked outside, I saw his truck speeding off, slinging gravel from the driveway. The bounce house was deflating—he had slashed it. I read his text as I held you in my arms: 'You dumb slut, that’s my daughter too. You can’t just let me not see her.' I blocked his number right then and there."

"But these things continued as you got older. I saved up my money to move away. When you turned five and started school, I wept like a baby. Two months after we moved, Mark found me. One day, while you were at school, I heard his truck pull up. My heart dropped. He stormed into the house, breaking the screen door. He beat me for so long that I fell unconscious."

"When I woke up, the paramedics were by my side. 'Ma’am, are you okay?' All I wanted to know was where you were. 'Where’s my baby? Where’s Jade?' 'Your daughter’s fine, ma’am. She’s outside with the cops,' they said. I didn’t care about the blood and bruises—I was just relieved you were safe. 'The guy who did this is at the station,' the paramedic added. I was happy in that moment, but I knew when he got out, he’d come straight for me."

"Days later, you asked me, 'What’s wrong with your eye, Mommy?' Your sweet voice, your blonde curls—watching you grow into the beautiful, mature woman you are now kept me going. I’m so glad you didn’t experience the things I did, and I hope you never will."

"Your grandmother used to sell me to men for extra cash. That was normal for me—it’s what I grew up with. The world betrayed me, and all I felt was emptiness. I felt like my chest was so hollow that I would never be able to experience life the way I wanted. When I turned sixteen, I finally realized that wasn’t normal. And years of those thoughts haunting my mind took their toll."

"I couldn’t take it anymore, and the thought of Mark getting out this year pushed me over the edge. Jade, I waited for this moment—I waited for you to be old enough to take care of yourself. My precious gem, I want you to know it’s for the better."

The note ends. I’m speechless. My tears have stopped like my heart has shattered. “It’s for the better.” How could she say that?

She left me alone so selfishly—for the better.

I had to cut her body down from the beam in our garage. I had to call 911, unable to speak. She was all I had. My tears smeared the ink on her note. I threw it on her bed and wiped the mascara off my eyes.

How could she say it’s for the better?

I picked the flowers to plant on her grave. I did her makeup for the funeral. A man took away my mother, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m so small in a world of men that my voice doesn’t even leave a scratch.

I threw myself onto my mom’s bed. I wanted her there to comfort me. I wanted her to tell me that my voice could make an impact. I wanted her to make my favorite lunch and leave me a note telling me how much she loved me. But all I have is this stupid note explaining why she killed herself.

I didn’t want to know why. I just wanted her.

But I told myself why.

I picked myself up and made my voice heard.

I realized that to have a voice—small or big—is better than having no voice at all. So I put my voice out there. I grew flowers in the darkest cracks of my mind. My mother was no punching bag—she was a woman too. A woman with a small voice.

So I told her story. I fought the battles for other women. I turned my mom’s death into a feeling that would make women feel powerful. I made it for the better.

But it never felt like enough.

Helping other women warmed me, but all I wanted was my mother. The pit she left in me would never fill. To keep from falling into that emptiness, I visit her grave. I drop off flowers. I talk.

But no matter how long it’s been, I still can’t speak a full sentence to her.

I choke up and cry.

I just want my mama back.

I want my world back.

Just tell me how to get her back.