“We will not know if a river cries, Ma,” muses my little poet.I sigh.

I, too, am a river, son.

I cry, a lot, but no one can see my tears.

I cry behind closed doors, in bathrooms, at nights.

I cry to release my pain, to cool my scars. The ones that I cannot see, but hurt more than the black bruises in my body. The bruises that the most expensive makeup can barely hide.

I cry when your daddy hits me for no reason. Oh, sometimes there are reasons. Like when his tea is a bit cold. When the salt in his soup is too much. Strangely enough, I find the tea ok. And the soup too. But yes, he has his reasons.
I cry to make the pain go away. It rarely does. 

But it sure numbs when I see you. With your giggles and laughter, your pranks and questions, you make me who I want to be. 

I cannot believe you are one half of that monster.

And because I do not want you to become him one day, we will soon fly away, to a place where he wont find us. Soon.

He thinks he is the sea, and I am a river that will always flow to him. 

This river will flow away from the sea, son.

Soon.
And that is what I want to tell you. But I don’t.

“Rivers do not cry, they are always happy. Like you.” I say, instead.

And as an afterthought, I add,

“And me.”

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