I always despised my mother’s hands—

long and slender,

frail and incapable of tenderness.

To me, they were ugly,

vessels of indifference and quiet cruelty.

As I fled the darkness, I stumbled and fell.

My hands caught me.

Looking down, I saw their familiar shape—

long and slender,

frail, yet now pulsing with empathy.

They were still ugly to me.

I do not want her hands.

They are steeped in hatred,

reaching only to destroy.

My heart races at the revelation.

I stagger. I rise. I scream:

I do not want her hands.

Blood surges through me like a storm.

Who am I?

With these unwanted hands, I wipe my tears.

I had no choice in their making,

yet I chose to run—

to survive them.

I ran.

I survived.

I did not ask for this life,

yet despite her hands, I live.

I cannot change the hands I was given,

but I can direct the will that flows through them.

I can shape my life.

Running once more, I look down again.

These hands—

long and slender,

strong and pulsing with empathy—

are no longer only hers.

They are my daughter’s hands.