I'm sorry, that I pushed you away like a child does to their broccoli. Swirling the healthy branches to the other side of their plate, slowly, with a fork, hoping no one will see, all the while knowing how good you were for me. But your daunting onyx eyes looked up to mine from across the table. In the nonverbal exchange I knew you knew what I'd done to you. You could see me slowly putting up my metal and pronged barrier. And unlike my mother, you didn't call me out like I thought you would, teaching me something: that what I was doing was wrong. Maybe no lesson was the lesson itself.