First, thank you for my haircut. There was something so beautiful about the way your hands tracked through my wet hair, tugging, measuring, snipping. The way your body leaned into mine. The way you examined me after...taking the scissors to wayward hairs here and there. The way your eyes misted up as they watched the scraps float like feathers to the floor.  

It's been a long time since my hair was this short. I keep reaching to brush it out of my eyes, only to find it gone. But I love it. I love you. I love you for cutting it even though you preferred it long. I mean, I love you for literally millions of reasons. This is just one more.

So your journal number 21 was the poetic description of preparing thanksgiving with Meredith, a rare happy memory with her. And my last entry really had me reflecting on my mum and Gem. I hate to put it like this because it sounds so callous... Forgive me. That's not at all how I want to come across. But. I couldn't help but think of my mum when I finally met yours. I couldn't help comparing. My heart broke for you because I knew how much you lacked, what you had missed out on. God, Maddie I'm just failing. Flailing. I don't know quite how to say this. I had all that you'd been missing. I had the mum who hugged me and told me she loved me and protected me and made me feel important.

I feel like such an ass.

I'm sorry.

I have several snippets from my childhood that I love. Minute little moments that I've cherished. So I'm going to share a few of those.

The first is actually more to do with Gem than mum. I was just a tot. Wobbling around on chubby legs with mittens on my hands to stop me biting my nails (which did not work, by the way). Gem used to nap with me everyday. Sometimes outside, sometimes in her Disney themed bedroom. She would hold me close, a big spoon to my little, and sing into my ear, "Hazza matata, it means no worries for the rest of your days..." Yes. HAZZA matata. When I was born, she couldn't pronounce her Rs correctly. No matter how mum tried, she couldn't get Gem to say it right. "Hazzy!" She'd bellow when I walked into a room. Mum finally just adopted the nickname, and when we watched Lion King, they'd sing. "Hazza matata..." So, none of the lads know this except for Liam. And we need to keep it that way. Louis is under the impression that Haz is some ultra cool nickname Liam bestowed upon me, and if he learned the truth, I'd never hear the end of it!

My next favourite moment was when I was in primary school. Sometime soon after dad left. I know it's after he left because I was angry. I was mad at mum all the time. I can see now in retrospect it was their divorce at the root of it, not whatever I thought was inciting it. I don't even remember now what sparked my anger on this particular day I'm thinking of. I just remember that I got soooo mad that I told mum she was the worst mother in the world. That she was a piece of poo. Yes, I said poo. I imagine seven or eight year old Maddie probably would have gone all in and said shit, but I was still an innocent little prince living in a magical land where my mother was the queen of all things. (Now I live in a magical world where you are the queen of all things.) Where was I? Oh yes. Poo. I screamed it, stomped away, and slammed my door. I buried my face in my Lord of the Rings sheets and cried. It was a downpour in the Shire. I wasn't crying because mum had hurt me. I was crying because I had hurt her. I was crushed by the thought. I hated myself for it. I was overflowing with regret, flooding the villages painted on my pillow. When I finally caught my breath, I got a piece of paper and wrote her the most heartfelt note I could. It read:

"MOMMY
Dear Mom, you are my favorit mommy ever. I'm sorry for calling you a pice of poo. And I hate you and not going to my room. I love you.
HARRY"

To clarify, I was saying sorry for saying I hate you and that I wouldn't go to my room. I wasn't the most articulate child. Fuck, I'm really no better now. Why is this a fond memory? Because of the way my mother held me when I gave her the note. The way she called me her favourite son. The way she kissed my tears away. She taught me how to forgive and how to ask for forgiveness. I learned how much it hurt to hurt the ones you love, and although I still have trouble controlling my tongue and my temper, I learned how to recognise when I was wrong and make amends.

My final fond memory was baking with mum, from the time I was a little boy all the way through my last night living in Holmes Chapel. I can remember not being able to reach the counter and having some job to do to help mum with her baking--stirring the dry ingredients or pressing the cookie forms onto the thinly rolled dough. As I got older, I got more complicated tasks--mixing in the eggs and butter, whisking the mixture into a froth, pouring the dough into pans. Always I got to lick the bowls. Gemma too. We'd scoop fingerfuls of batter from the spatula or the mixer blades. I've no doubt this is the source of my sweet tooth. I love delectable baked goods.

My favourite is your pie.

Apple pie.

Get your mind out of the gutter, you!

Your crumbly apple pie is the best thing I've ever eaten, not just because it is supremely delicious, but because of what it means. What it represents. It is this tangible connection you share with your mother, a sign that all hope is not lost. It may have been the only love or affection she ever showed you growing up, and you cherished it like a precious vein of gold in a wall of dirt. I cherish it too, as I cherish you.

Mum and Gem have filled my life with love and affection, as I will fill yours. As someday I will fill the lives of our little herd. You will never want for love.

~~~~~

Bonus chapter!!! Can I get an amen??

Harry's hair was a distraction and an inspiration. ❤️