I arrived in France a day later, numb and no tears left to cry. Walking in the house felt so different. My brother, who could, understandably, give two shits about the whole thing, was the only one acting normal. The only time I saw my grandparents cry like that was when they disowned her after I told them what she did. It hurt so much. I didn't need to rip cloth, for she had already left my heart a long time ago. It was nice to see my extended family again. Most of them didn't care, they considered her dead for seven years. Though some, like my aunts, cried with my grandparents.

I found myself feeling bitter, depressed, and relieved all at once. I kept replaying memories. The one with her scratching my forehead. The one with her hitting Marcel with her belt so hard that his legs were bleeding. The ones with her pulling my hair and ripping it out of my head. The ones with her waking me up just to curse at me.

Then I think of the only three happy memories with her. My fourth birthday party. I looked girly with my bows and dress I hated, and of course, everyone thought I was the cutest thing. It was only time she called me beautiful. The second one was when she was drunk and couldn't stop hugging and kissing me, even though she kept calling me a stranger's name. That was the only time she ever did that. I remember her touch against my skin, tight and warm. I remember her kisses, quick and wet. Then the last one didn't involve me, but I saw it. She was talking to someone, and she smiled for a split second. I didn't see her happy much, but her smile was lovely. It looks like mine, I'm glad I got that from her.

My grandpa came into my room at night as I was getting ready for bed. It was hard to see him in that state. His hair was a gray mess, and his eyes were swollen from crying so much. He sat on my bed and apologized if he ever failed me. He had nothing to apologize for. He helped me transition, he raised me, he's my father in my eyes. He was broken, I didn't know how to fix him. I felt like there was something he wasn't telling me.

I unpacked my suitcase after he left and saw the letters Lloyd wrote for me. He was so helpful during that time. Every day I was there, he paid someone to bring me flowers or fruit. I opened the first letter. I think that was the only time I smiled that day. He wrote silly things and loving things, things he knew would make me feel better. He drew a dumb picture of the dogs underneath. He couldn't draw for shit, but it was adorable to me.

----------------

The funeral was the day after I came back, us jews bury our dead quick. Marcel didn't want to come despite my grandma pleading with him to say goodbye to his mother, which he told her that she was no more a mother than she was a beast. Honestly, I don't blame him. She was monstrous with him, throwing him around and locking him in his room without food or water for days. If it wasn't for me sneaking stuff through the closet, I think he would've died. Most of my family weren't going either. Only me, my grandparents, my four aunts, and one of my uncles went. She didn't have any friends.

It was surrel to see her in the bag. I could see her very skinny frame, thank goodness she was covered. Her pictures were everywhere. Pictures of her as a baby and little kid got to me. She looked like a white version of my brother. There was only one with her at my age, I was three at that time. Her face looked so much like mine, it was actually scary. Would I look like that if I never transitioned? I tend to think of how I would look if I stayed as the girl she wanted. Would I be a woman with a skinny waist and long hair? Would I have a soft voice and pretty nails? Would I look as beautiful as her?

I didn't put dirt on her, I drove home right after the service. I hugged Marcel really hard, crying into his shoulder. He's really tall. Our mom wasn't tall. She was the same height as Lloyd. I remember being half-asleep and seeing his dad's tall silhouette by the door. I remember seeing hers, naked and being towed over by the man. Marcel always cried when I cried. I love that kid. He's been through so much shit yet he's still one of the kindest people I've ever met.

My grandparents stayed in their room after the funeral. I comforted them the best I could. The rest of the night was a blur. The next day, shivah began.

--------------------

Usually, children mourn their parent's death for up to a year. They don't party, cut their hair, that stuff. I didn't do that. I only mourned for a week. Marcel didn't mourn at all, and again, can't blame the kid.

Everything was beginning to remind me of her. Belts. Fruits. Red. Birds. I couldn't stop thinking of her voice. Her angry, loud voice. I opened five letters from Lloyd that day. I missed him a lot, but I needed time to myself. He understood. He didn't call me. The only thing he did is send pictures of the dogs doing dumb things, like one where he puts Apple on his throne with a crown emoji on her head.

----------------------

The night afterward, Marcel came into my room with two coffee colored envelopes. He said mom wrote them. He gave me his and asked me to throw it out. He left after he gave me mine. I didn't throw it out, I couldn't bring myself to. I had a feeling he would want it in the future so I put it in my suitcase. I looked at mine before opening it.

"Hello, François."

I already started to cry. She accepted it? Why didn't she reach out? Why didn't she tell me?

"I need to tell you a few things. I want to start off by saying I'm sorry. I know sorry won't take back all those horrible memories, but sorry is all I can do."

She said sorry. I've waited twenty years for that.

"I know you're curious about your father. Your father's name is Loú. Your grandparents will probably never tell you this, but there's a reason I made sure he was never around. I know you're going to hate me more than you already do. When I was seventeen, he raped me. He got me drunk, and the next thing I knew, I woke up with my panties on the floor and him smirking at me. My parents didn't believe me when I told them because he was my boyfriend, and how could a boyfriend rape his own girlfriend? He tried reaching out a few times, and once, he came to the house to try to take you with him when you were two. I told him if he ever came around you, I'll kill him. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. You can look for him if you want to. He lives in Lyon.

I saw so much of him in your face. I know none of it is your fault. Sometimes, you even acted like him, being silly and dancing around the house. It made me sick, I'm ashamed to admit everything about you made me sick for a long time. I'm sorry I tried to replace you. I'm evil. I'm so sorry."

I'm a rape baby. It made so much sense. That was the name she called me when she was drunk. All of it makes sense now. Jesus Christ. I made my own mother sick. I should've been aborted. I share DNA with a rapist. I'm half rapist. No wonder why my mom couldn't look at me. No wonder why my husband was scared of me. Oh my God, I wanted to throw up.

"When you came out, I know I overreacted. I always wanted a little girl. I wanted a doll. But children aren't dolls, I know that now. I'm sorry for throwing you out. I'm sorry for making you hate yourself. I don't know why I did it so many times, but it doesn't matter. I hurt you so much, and I know that probably hurt the most."

Why couldn't I just stay a girl? She was raped and couldn't even have the child she wanted. What have I done to her?

"After that, stuff got bad. I turned to drugs. I deserve the pain, I know you're in so much more than what I could ever feel. I became homeless because drugs were more important than work. It was after a really bad trip that I realized what I did for so long. I hurt you. I hurt Marcel. I'm a poison to you, so I never reached out to you. I've already done too much."

Why didn't I ever call her? Oh God, why didn't have my mommy with me.

"The last time I've heard and saw you was on the TV. You got married, my little one."

I'm her little one. I'm her little one. Little one. Her little one wanted her there. I looked for her face. Her little one.

"He looks so beautiful. I know he will treat you like you deserve. And you're a prince now? I'm so incredibly proud. I'm so relieved, despite everything terrible thing I did, you're someone. You're actually someone. You look so handsome. It hurts to look at you, I see every mistake I made. I see the pain in your eyes. You look so happy. I'm sorry. Please, make sure Marcel is someone too, don't let him end up like me. I know he loves you. I know he's angry with me, I would be too."

She saw me. She knows Lloyd. She knows me. She thinks I'm someone.

"I have to go now, I'm afraid."

No, please.

"I love you."

.....

....

She loves me. She loved me.

"I'm sorry, my little François. Goodbye. If anything, you were the best thing that ever happened to me."

I stared at the wall. The letter was against my heart, moving against my heartbeat. She loves me. My mommy, mother, abuser loved me.

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The next morning, I rushed into my grandparents' room. I yelled at them, tears in my eyes. How could you do this to her, I screamed. Why didn't you believe her? Why?

My grandpa was shaking and covering his face. My grandma couldn't justify it, saying that's how things were back then. Yeah, sure, I yelled at her. You forced a seventeen year old to have a baby she didn't want. I couldn't stand the sounds of their shaking voices that morning. I stormed out and got into my car as Marcel stood in the dining room, shocked and covering his mouth.

I couldn't stop crying. I'm surprised I didn't get into a damn accident with the way I was driving. I drove around for three hours, sobbing as I thought about her. I was a stupid fuck at seventeen, and she was forced to have a baby. Oh my God, I ruined her life before it began. I stopped somewhere and broke down. She was only thirty-eight. All those years, and nothing to show she's been living on Earth. Nothing, except me and my half brother.

I drove home only when I didn't feel angry anymore. Marcel was crying. I made him cry again. I hugged him and cried with him. He was shaking so much that he couldn't sign, but I told him that I loved him so much and how proud of him I was. I remember him as a baby. I was the only one that held him at home, he's my baby. I think I'm raising him good. 

I spoke with my grandparents. They told me they regretted not believing her and forcing me on her. To their credit, they helped her with us a lot when we were kids. They tried with her, but I could see why she wanted nothing to do with them. They begged, pleaded, for me to not hate them. I couldn't do that to them. I love them, I love everyone. I love you, too, mom.

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On the fourth day, I drove to her new home. I sat on the ground in front of her and touched her face, cold and shiny. I put a penny on her head. I read her face.

"Apolline M. Dauphiné
February 2, 1981 - May 27, 2019."

I unfolded the note I wrote for her. I looked at the overcast, the wind blowing in my hair and black shorts.

"Hello, mother."

I swallowed.

"I'm sorry for what happened to you. It wasn't fair. I understand so much now. I need to start off by using Marcel is angry with you. But I think with time, he could forgive. It's up to him, though.

Me, on the other hand, I'm not sure how to feel about you. I have two people in my mind. The one that I love, who smiles and calls me little one. The one with big, loveable brown eyes. The one that loved rainbows and blackbird. Then the one that I hate. The one that slaps and screams and grabs me when she's mad. The one that left my baby brother to fend for himself. The one that left me when I needed you most. Somehow, you're both of those people.

I want you to be here. To touch me, not out of anger, but out of love and call me little one with a sweet voice I only heard twice in my life. I see you as a scared, traumatized, and broken teenage mother. I also see you as a hateful, frightening drug-addit. My heart fears and longs for you.

You left me standing here a long time. Many times, I've been alone, and many times, I've cried because of your abusive actions. When you used to pull my hair so hard I would see it in between your fingers. When you would strave me to fit in a dress. When you would call me the ugliest thing you've seen. However, I've already grieved that part of you, and I'm ready to grieve the new you I'm learning about.

You've hurt Marcel. You've hurt her. You've hurt [REDACTED]. Although [REDACTED] is all grown up and is now François, she's hurt. You left her to cry, to question herself, to think she didn't deserve love because her mom was too busy having fun at parties or abusing her. And although she will always be furious, she loves you. I love you. We both love you."

I touched her face, seeing my crying face in reflection of her black eyes.

"I'm ready to say goodbye, and I hope you rest easy. Goodbye, mom."

I wrapped my arms around her, my tears getting hidden in the rain. I felt the warm wind embrace me and kiss my cheeks. I felt her long hair down my back. I smelled her scent of strong perfume in my running nose.

I stood up and stared at her one more time before getting in the car. I heard birds chirping as I left all the bad feelings behind.

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FOR THE LAST TIME- Emily Mary Osborn