None of it was real and now all of it is broken

At 6:50 every morning, a stream of soft, blue, daybreak light spills across our bed. Our little Meadow Mae and her most glorious mop of dark hair are always laying in this little ray of sunshine. I sneak out of bed to get my morning cup of quiet before the kids and dogs wake, leaving her in the warmth of our bed. Whenever I peek in to make sure she's still sleeping, the light is still hugging her little shape, highlighting all her beauty in the darkness. It doesn't matter where on the bed we fell asleep or how much sleep dancing we did, she always finds her way to the light. She snores, snorts, and wiggles her way around the bed. Somehow, no matter where I move to, she always ends up with her teeny legs wrapped over mine. We fit perfectly, this little girl and I. Like we were made for each other.

I love our little Meadow Mae. She has completed our family as only a sweet and sleepy third baby can. She heals a part of my heart that only a daughter is able to when you were unloved by your own mother. She breaks the cycle. Finally. I will always and forever protect her and my boys from ever entering into that familiar spiral.

I came from a lineage of women that refused to take any responsibility for their own actions and instead packaged everything with a pretty little bow for the outside world. It didn't matter that you hurt just long as you pretended your family was fine. You didn't have to believe in God, you just had to make sure people saw you go to church. The mother she was in public and the person she was behind closed doors were not one and the same. Because the illusion was all important, the mask so convincing, I was always the wrong one. Always. As children, we were taught to protect the image. First. Always. My heart broke a million times in the relationship with my mother but it never mattered. It never does when the most important thing in your life to is project perfection outwardly while playing the victim and martyr role perfectly behind the scenes. I was dying on the inside, I just had to make sure I hid the pain. More importantly that it never reflected badly back on the family. And when it did, I was always vilified, at any age. Every age. I fulfilled my wayward daughter role quite well until I became aware that it didn't have to be. And so goes the heart of the scapegoat in a family with a narcissistic mother.

None of it was real and now all of it is broken.

Meadow makes me want to be the strongest, fiercest, most empowered woman I can be. For myself and for her. For all women. I want to teach her all the things I was never taught. Give her all the permission to be herself that I was never granted. I want her to feel the maternal love I was denied. The support. The truth. The laughter. The light. The life she deserves. That every child deserves. She will have everything I didn't. I want her to know she will be loved, just as she is and whoever she grows to be. And whoever she is is just perfect. For today. For always.

My sweet little Meadow Mae, with her entire beautiful life waiting to unfold before her. Every morning, I stare at her in that soft glimmer of light. Every morning, I know that, without a doubt, she will be whole and happy in this life.