At nine years old, my mother left—
I would talk to her every week;
ask her when she was coming home,
if she knew when she was coming home
she would always reply,
"I don't know, sweetie."
Now I know it's because she didn't want to say she wasn't.

At sixteen years old, my mother got cancer—
I would talk to her every week;
ask her if she was getting better,
if she knew when she was going to get better
she would always reply,
"I don't know, honey."
And now I know it's because she didn't want to say she isn't.