Love Sarah. I said so.

My mother had an old friend who sent me a gift when I was about six or seven. My mom wanted me to send her a thank you note, which was no problem until I got the end and did not know how to finish it. My mom said, just put “Love, Sarah” but I said I did not want to put that and it turned into an argument. My mom was convinced that I was being selfish, but it wasn't that. It was that to me, LOVE SARAH sounded like a command, a statement with no comma. Like I was telling some random grown up to love me. I couldn't explain it. I finally did what she said just so I could get it over with, but by then I had angered my mother and I could not express my own position on the matter. I stormed off to my room and curled up on the bed in a hot heap of sad because my mother called me a little snot and I knew that in her mind it was true.

I did not have words to explain that I did not want to tell anyone else what to do, that it was too bold of me to tell my mom's friend to love me. It wouldn't have worked.

Shortly after this we were told in school to write letters to our mothers. I struggled with that so hard. I couldn't think of anything to write that wouldn't offend her.

Eventually I wrote: Dear Mom, You are a very good person. Love, Sarah.

I ran across that letter recently. I have it. It is on this pulpy paper with a pink background, with dotted and straight lines, and a giraffe on one side, peeking over my lie. I have it because my mom gave it back to me when I was still a teenager. It hurt her feelings and she did not want it anymore.