Enter the Words.

When she tells you, listen and believe her.
Demolish the stereotypes of society.
I don’t care what you were wearing.
Remember that only 35% of these situations get
reported,
and the other 65% die with the victim’s sense of
security.
Build a safe space for her to vent.
Put a steel door—actually, wood.
Because I know just hearing steel
might make her flinch.
Nothing else will be taken from her.
None of the details matter.
She never said yes.
Let her talk—because what if you are the only
person she tells?
Watch her go numb
as she says, “I’m working through it.”
Whisper under your breath,
“We will get through it.”
Feel the keys jingle at a door
locked in your memory
You’re not ready to open yet.
Call her and sit in silence together,
knowing the darkness might swallow her alone.
Ask her questions about anything you can think of,
because that’s the last thing her mind needs to focus
on.
Show up, even if you suspect she’s not all there.
Know that some days it’s a good day,
and the others—she just needs to get through the
day.
When she tells you what support looks like for her,
feel your eyes widen
and grow calm, realizing she’s trying to heal.
But remind yourself: she will never get over it.
When she starts talking about what she likes,
figure out how you can make it happen—
because she’s one step closer to living.
When the next day comes and she reverts after
being triggered,
watch the movie she likes,
because you don’t want her to picture anything else.
Listen to her open up hours later.
Remember that she grew up having to be ok,
so a space where she is not—and it’s welcomed—
will make her suspicious.
On the day she accuses you of anything,
tell her you’re also suspicious.
Hear her laugh
as the pain loosens its grip on her mind.
After she cheats in a card game,
listen as she admits that her boundaries
are a foreign language in so-called friendships.
Remind yourself to never be her friend—
because they have a terrible track record.
When you hang out a few more times,
watch as she brings her personality,
because she no longer has to keep her eyes on you
at all times.
Realize the lock turned on the door in your mind.
Remember being too little to help
when it happened to your sister, you were barely 7.
watching her become suspicious.
Reflect on missing the old her,
acknowledge that it was stolen from her, too.
It’s too late for your sister,
but you told yourself when you got bigger
that you would not allow women to suffer alone.
Snap back into reality.
Watch her personality unfold.
Admire but don’t acknowledge—she’s still
suspicious.
Hear her say she wishes she were further,
and smile because she doesn’t see
how much she overcame.
How she talks,
and then thinks she is talking too much—
not realizing how you two once sat in silence.
So to hear the highlights of her day
is the least you can do.
Then smile harder,
because it sounds like she’s living.
Hear yourself say:
“She is someone’s sister, too.”
That you’re hugging her through support,
or comfort, like grandma and aunties—
making sure it’s warm and sincere.
But nonetheless,
appreciate when she feels safe.

I am my mother's revenge,

not spiteful
or vengeful,

but here to carry the voice
she couldn't
when it was muffled
or stifled.

I am the words
she swallowed
to keep the peace,

the questions
she learned not to ask,

the anger she folded neatly
and placed somewhere
behind responsibility,

motherhood,

work,

and all the things
a woman was expected
to endure
without making anyone else
uncomfortable.

I am not here
to avenge her pain.

I am here
to make certain
it was not meaningless.

There is a difference.

Revenge does not always arrive
with clenched fists.

Sometimes it arrives
with open hands

holding everything
someone else was forced
to put down.

Sometimes revenge
is simply refusing
to remain silent

about the things
that silence protected.

And my mother knew silence.

Not because
she had nothing to say.

God, no.

She had enough words
to fill classrooms.

Enough patience
to reach children
others had already decided
could not be reached.

Enough stubbornness
to find another way
when the accepted way
failed them.

She taught.

She listened.

She improvised.

She believed.

And when the world said,

this is how it is done,

she sometimes answered,

then perhaps
we should do it differently.

That was my mother.

And maybe
that is why

I am this way.

Maybe rebellion
is hereditary.

Maybe questioning
what everyone else accepts

is something passed
from mother to son

more faithfully
than eye color.

Maybe every time
I refuse to accept

that's just the way it is

I am hearing her.

Maybe every institution
I question,

every rule
I challenge,

every person
I defend

because their voice
is smaller than the room
trying to silence it,

is her hand
still guiding mine.

I am my mother's revenge.

Against every person
who underestimated her.

Against every moment
she doubted herself.

Against every dream
postponed

because children needed raising,

bills needed paying,

students needed teaching,

and life has a cruel habit
of asking women

to place themselves
last.

I cannot give her
those years back.

I cannot return
the opportunities
that passed her by.

I cannot find
every moment

when she wanted
to scream

but chose instead
to keep everyone else
from falling apart.

I cannot rewrite
her life.

But I can write.

And maybe
that matters.

Because I found
the words she left me.

A letter.

Her voice
sitting quietly on a page,

waiting years
for me to understand

that she had given me
more than advice.

She had given me
a map.

Think things through.

Make mistakes.

Learn from them.

Educate yourself.

Educate your children.

Walk away
from foolish people.

Take pictures.

Be spontaneous.

Get in the car
sometimes

without knowing
where you're going.

And if you get lost,

maybe call it
an adventure.

I didn't know then

that ordinary advice
could become sacred.

You never do

when the person speaking
is still here.

You assume
there will always be

another conversation.

Another question.

Another cup of coffee.

Another drive.

Another chance
to ask,

Mom, what did you mean by that?

Until there isn't.

And suddenly

every sentence
becomes archaeology.

You dig through memories

looking for pieces
of someone

you once believed
would always be there.

A photograph.

A letter.

A phrase.

A handwriting
you would recognize
in a room full
of strangers.

And you hold it

like proof.

She was here.

She thought.

She dreamed.

She worried.

She laughed.

She got scared.

She got lost.

She drank coffee.

She blasted the radio.

She taught children.

She raised children.

She made mistakes.

She loved.

She mattered.

She fucking mattered.

And perhaps
that is the revenge.

That time
doesn't get everything.

It took her body.

It cannot take
what she taught me.

It took her voice.

So I will lend her mine.

It took the woman
from the classroom,

but somewhere
there are people

walking through this world

carrying lessons
they may not even remember
learning from her.

And there are two children

who carry her differently.

A daughter.

A son.

And through us,

pieces of her
keep entering rooms

she will never see.

I am my mother's revenge

against forgetting.

Against the slow erosion
of memory.

Against the cruel mathematics
of time

that turns people
into photographs,

photographs
into boxes,

boxes
into names

someone eventually
doesn't recognize.

Not her.

Not while I am here.

I will say her name.

Lorraine Ann Pirro.

I will write it.

I will publish it.

I will attach it
to the things she believed in.

Education.

Compassion.

Patience.

Children who need
someone to believe
they are capable

before they learn
to believe it themselves.

I will make room
for her story

in mine.

Not because
she was perfect.

She wasn't.

Neither am I.

But perfection
is a terrible requirement
for being remembered.

She was human.

Complicated.

Funny.

Afraid sometimes.

Strong sometimes.

Lost sometimes.

Certain sometimes.

A mother.

A teacher.

A woman
trying to make sense
of her own life

while teaching me
how to make sense
of mine.

And now I understand
something I couldn't
when she was here.

Our parents
do not hand us
finished wisdom.

They hand us fragments.

Things they learned
too late.

Things they wish
someone had told them.

Warnings disguised
as advice.

Regrets disguised
as lessons.

Love disguised
as nagging.

And then they leave us
to assemble it.

So I am assembling.

Word by word.

Memory by memory.

Lesson by lesson.

I am building something
from what remains.

Not a monument.

She wouldn't need one.

Something better.

Continuation.

Because revenge
against death

is not pretending
someone never died.

It is refusing
to let their existence
end there.

So I will carry
what deserves carrying.

I will put down
what hurt her.

I will learn
from what she got wrong.

I will protect
what she got right.

And I will give
my children

the best pieces
of both of us.

Maybe someday
they will give those pieces
to theirs.

And someone
who never knew her

will show kindness
because kindness traveled

from her

to me,

from me

to them,

and onward.

They may never know
where it began.

That's okay.

Legacy does not require
credit.

Only continuation.

So no,

I am not my mother's revenge
because I hate the world
that hurt her.

I am my mother's revenge

because I intend
to leave it better

than she found it.

Because every time
the world tried
to make her smaller,

she taught me
to grow.

Every time
her voice was muffled,

she unknowingly raised
someone

who would spend his life
finding microphones.

And now that I have one,

I know exactly
what I want to say.

My mother was here.

Her life mattered.

Her work mattered.

Her mistakes mattered.

Her lessons mattered.

Her love mattered.

And whatever tried
to silence her

failed.

Because I heard her.

I still hear her.

And as long as
there is breath in me,

as long as
there are words
left to write,

as long as
I can tell her story,

she will never again
have to whisper.

I am my mother's revenge.

And I will make sure
the world hears her.

A Letter to My Son, Nicholas

(After the words of my mother)

In April of 1979,
I became sick every morning.
I was twenty years old
when a doctor told me
there was a tumor inside me.
Something dangerous.
Something that needed
to be removed.
Immediately.
He made the appointment
for the following week,
and I went home frightened,
twenty years old
and scared to death
of something growing inside me
that I did not yet understand.
I talked to Grandma.
She insisted
I get a second opinion.
Thank God
for mothers
who insist.
I went to her doctor.
He examined me,
took some blood,
left the room,
and when he returned
he was smiling.
"Congratulations," he said.
"You're having a baby."
And there I sat,
mouth open,
unable to understand
how one doctor could call you
a tumor
and another
could call you
a child.
He asked me
why I wasn't happy.
I told him
what the other doctor had said.
Even he couldn't believe it.
But he reassured me.
There was no tumor.
There was you.
And suddenly
I couldn't get dressed
fast enough.
I couldn't wait
to tell your father.
We called everyone.
We told them our news.
We celebrated.
Because what I had spent days
believing might take my life
was actually a life
being given to me.
You.
-
A month later
I went back.
The doctor listened
to your heart,
then listened again.
He came into the room
all aglow
and told me
there were two of you.
Twins.
And once again
I was afraid.
Your sister was only two.
I didn't know
if I was capable
of caring for two more children.
So I called Grandma.
Of course I called Grandma.
And she told me
if I could care for one,
I could certainly
care for two.
For months
I prepared myself
to meet both of you.
Until my seventh month,
when the doctor discovered
there had never been
another baby.
The second heartbeat
was an echo.
Your heartbeat
traveling through the umbilical cord,
returning to us
as something
we mistook for another life.
There was only you.
So I prayed for a boy.
And I worked
on your blue knitted blanket,
stitch after stitch,
waiting for you.
On December 18, 1979,
my wish was granted.
You came into the world.
And it was
a very happy day.
-
I wish I could tell you
that being your mother
meant I always knew
what I was doing.
I didn't.
I learned.
Responsibility.
Patience.
Understanding.
Communication.
These were the things
I tried to give you,
even while
I was still learning them myself.
Life has its ups and downs,
but life
is what you make it.
Think things through.
Look at the good.
Look at the bad.
Make your decision,
then understand
that decisions have consequences.
And Nicholas,
you will make mistakes.
Please make them.
Don't spend your life
afraid of making
the wrong decision.
Mistakes teach you.
Sometimes better
than success ever could.
You will remember them.
You will grow from them.
Life is an experience
from which
you will always learn.
-
Talk to your children.
But more importantly,
listen to them.
Start when they are young.
Keep listening
when they grow older.
Because the older they become,
the more important
those conversations will be.
Understanding doesn't appear
simply because
two people love each other.
Sometimes understanding
has to be spoken.
Sometimes it has to listen.
-
Educate yourself.
Educate your children.
Give them every opportunity
you can.
But don't do what I did.
Don't burden yourself
for twenty years
wondering what you are supposed
to be when you grow up.
Choose carefully.
Ask yourself
what makes you happy.
And if someday
the answer changes,
change your mind.
That is one
of the greatest parts of life.
You can make
your own footprints.
They don't have to follow mine.
They don't have to follow
anyone's.
-
There are things
I wish I had done better.
I ran from my problems sometimes
instead of facing them.
I needed time to think.
You knew that.
Sometimes
I would take the dog,
go to Dunkin Donuts,
get a coffee,
turn the radio up,
and drive.
No destination.
Just road.
Music.
Coffee.
A dog beside me.
And enough miles
between me and whatever hurt
for my thoughts
to finally become quiet.
Believe it or not,
it helped me think rationally.
And you gave me that time.
You didn't ask
too many questions.
Thank you for that.
Maybe children don't realize
how often
they take care of their parents too.
-
There are things about you
I have always loved.
Your sense of humor.
Your sensitivity.
The way you care.
The way you love.
Your generosity.
Even when I dropped you off
at school,
you never hesitated
to kiss me goodbye
and tell me
to have a good day,
even when your classmates
thought it was
a bunch of mush.
You didn't care.
You kissed your mother.
I hope you know
how much that meant to me.
You looked at both sides
of things.
You stood up
for what you believed.
And I knew,
even then,
that you would give
the shirt off your back
to someone who needed it.
You made me proud.
You make me proud.
-
Looking back,
I realize
I wasn't only your parent.
I was your teacher.
Though sometimes
you were mine.
I taught you responsibility
when you were young.
Your favorite chore
was sweeping the floor.
And when one of those
creepy insects appeared,
I was terrified.
But there you were.
My little boy,
standing proud,
protecting his mother
from a bug.
You probably thought
you were doing
something small.
Mothers remember
the small things.
-
I hope you go to college.
I hope you find a career
that makes you happy.
And if you don't know
what makes you happy,
look backward.
Look at the child
you used to be.
Sometimes what we love
is waiting there,
before the world tells us
what we're supposed
to become.
Around thirty,
I hope you marry
the girl of your dreams.
I hope you have children.
And when you do,
have rules.
Stick to them.
But remember
that life doesn't always fit
neatly inside rules.
Be flexible
when circumstances require it.
Be consistent.
Be fair.
Be present.
-
And Nicholas,
take pictures.
Please.
Take too many.
Keep scrapbooks.
Save the ridiculous ones.
Save the blurry ones.
Save the ordinary Tuesday
nobody thinks matters.
Because life passes
too quickly.
It becomes hectic.
Years begin moving faster
than you thought years could move,
and one day
you will try to remember
something that once seemed
impossible to forget.
Pictures help.
So keep them.
-
Learn from other people's mistakes.
Life is too short
to make all of them yourself.
Be confident.
Walk away
from foolish people.
Enjoy your life.
Be spontaneous.
Remember those afternoons
when you came home from school
and discovered
I had already packed the car?
Another weekend trip.
You and your sister
thought I was crazy.
Maybe I was.
But before long,
you started looking forward
to those little vacations.
And remember
when we would just get into the car
and drive?
No reservations.
No itinerary.
No destination.
Just miles.
And miles.
And miles.
Just to see
where we might end up.
Jen hated
when we got lost.
But you and I?
We called it
an adventure.
Maybe that is something
I hope you carry with you.
Not every wrong turn
means you're lost.
Sometimes
you simply haven't discovered
where you're going yet.
-
There will come a day
when you cannot call me
to ask what I think.
There will come a day
when you have to make
the decision yourself.
I hope, somehow,
something I taught you
will still answer.
Maybe you'll hear me
telling you to think it through.
Maybe you'll remember
that mistakes are lessons.
Maybe you'll walk away
from foolish people.
Maybe you'll take a picture.
Maybe you'll kiss your children goodbye
even when someone thinks
it's a bunch of mush.
Maybe you'll pack the car
without telling anyone
where you're going.
Maybe you'll get lost.
I hope sometimes
you do.
And when everyone else
starts worrying,
maybe you'll smile
because you'll remember
your mother
with a coffee in her hand,
the dog beside her,
the radio blasting,
driving nowhere
until nowhere
became somewhere.
And you'll remember
that we thought of it
as an adventure.
-
I don't know
what the rest of your life
will look like.
A mother never gets
to know that
when she writes a letter
to her son.
She can only imagine.
She can hope.
She can worry.
She can offer advice
that he may not understand
until years later.
And she can leave him
with the one thing
she knows for certain.
So whatever happens,
whatever roads you take,
whatever mistakes you make,
whatever career you choose
or leave behind,
whoever you become,
however far you travel
from that little boy
who swept my floors,
caught my creepy insects,
kissed me goodbye at school,
and climbed into the car
without knowing
where his crazy mother
was taking him,
always remember
and never forget:
I love you, son.
And I couldn't have asked
for a better child.
All my love,
Mom.
Mommy.
Madre.
And if someday
those three names
exist only in your memory,
say them once in a while.
Not because
I need to hear them.
But because once,
a twenty-year-old girl
was told there was something
dangerous growing inside her.
And she was terrified.
Until another doctor smiled
and told her
it wasn't a tumor.
It was a baby.
It was a boy.
It was you.
And Nicholas,
you were never
something that happened to my life.
You were one of the things
that made it worth living.

Facedown

I drowned in the pain,
a puddle in the rain
I was forced to play in,
now I'm facedown in.

Breathing mud,
tasting blood,
asking God if this is punishment
or just what living does.

I tried standing tall,
but tall men still fall,
and pride doesn't soften the ground
when you've given your all.

So I stayed there.

Facedown.

Not dead-
just tired of proving
I was alive.

Tired of carrying storms
like they were mine to survive.
Tired of saying I'm fine
when fine was a lie
I had told for so long
even I believed it sometimes.

Then you found me.

Didn't pull me up.
Didn't tell me to fight.
Didn't hand me another reason
I had to make everything right.

You just laid beside me
in the rain.

And for once,
someone didn't ask me
to explain the pain.

You let the water fall.
Let me curse it all.
Let me be something other
than the man who catches everyone
when they fall.

And somewhere between
the thunder
and your hand finding mine,

I realized-

maybe rock bottom
isn't always where we die.

Sometimes it's where we finally stop
long enough
to look at the sky.

So I rolled over.

Rain still falling.
Pain still calling.

Nothing magically healed,
nothing suddenly right-

but there you were,

and somehow the darkness
didn't feel quite as much
like night.

I had drowned in the pain,
a puddle in the rain
I was forced to play in-

but I won't stay facedown in it.

Because you taught me
something the storm never could:

getting back up
isn't pretending
the fall didn't hurt.

It's knowing it did-

and rising

anyway.

You.

You the reason I breathe,
the reason I'd bleed,
and the reason I need
to be a better man,
and be settled and comfortable
when the chaos swirls-
from the wind
to the world.

You.

The quiet in a life
that learned to speak in storms.
The hand I reach for
when everything I've carried
becomes too heavy
to pretend it weighs nothing.

You don't stop the rain.

You make me forget
that I'm wet.

You don't silence the thunder.

You remind me
that noise isn't always something
I have to fight.

Because I've fought.

God, I've fought.

I've fought battles
that weren't mine,
wars that had no winners,
and people I loved
as though loving them meant
I had to survive them.

I've mistaken scars
for medals,
exhaustion for strength,
and standing alone
for standing tall.

Then-

You.

You walked into the wreckage
without asking me
who started the fire.

You didn't demand
that I rebuild myself
before I deserved your warmth.

You simply stayed.

And somewhere between
your laughter
and the way you say my name,

I started wondering
whether a man can spend
so much of his life surviving
that he forgets
he was supposed to live.

So I want to live.

Not forever.

Just long enough.

Long enough to grow old
beside you.

Long enough for these hands,
so accustomed to fists,
to forget what they were
ever fighting for.

Long enough to learn
that peace isn't surrender.

That softness isn't weakness.

That a man can lay down his sword
without losing his name.

And if tomorrow comes angry,
let it.

If the wind tears through our world,
let it howl.

If everything I've built
comes crashing to the ground,

I'll build again.

But this time—

not an empire.

Not a fortress.

Not walls tall enough
to keep the whole world out.

I'll build a home.

And I'll leave the door unlocked
because you'll be there.

You.

The reason I breathe.

The reason I'd bleed.

But more importantly-

the reason I'm finally learning

that maybe
I don't have to.

If the sky ever fell,
I'd fall with you,
or so I hope.

You're heaven on Earth,
and I want to be where you are.

I've seen the dark
and prayed for light,
so now that I've found it,
I'll not let go without a fight
that exhausts my mind,
my body,
and my might.

For I have learned
that heaven is not somewhere
waiting beyond the clouds.
Sometimes heaven breathes beside you,
sleeps beside you,
laughs from another room,
and asks nothing more
than to be loved
without being lost.

And I have lost enough.

Enough years.
Enough pieces of myself.
Enough nights bargaining with tomorrow
for one more chance
to make today mean something.

So if the stars go dark,
let them.

If the mountains crumble,
let them fall.

If the oceans rise
to swallow every road
that ever promised us escape,
take my hand.

I have spent too much of my life
surviving things
I thought would kill me
to be frightened now
of dying beside something
worth living for.

But perhaps that is the danger.

I have always mistaken love
for something worth bleeding for,
mistaken devotion for endurance,
and endurance for proof.

Perhaps heaven does not need defending.
Perhaps love was never asking me
to destroy myself
to prove that it was real.

So if the sky ever falls,
I will not hold it up alone.

I will not break my back
beneath the weight of heaven
just to say I saved it.

I'll reach for you.

And if you reach for me,
we'll stand as long as we can.

And when we cannot-

then let the whole damned sky fall.

Let kingdoms disappear.
Let victories lose their names.
Let history forget
who conquered whom.

Because if the last thing left
in this collapsing world
is your hand inside mine,

I will have finally learned
the difference

between a battle worth winning

and a love
worth losing everything for.

What I Want for You

I want you to work hard,
but never so hard
that your body becomes the price
of your ambition.

I want you to dream big,
but never measure your worth
by titles,
money,
degrees,
promotions,
or applause.

Achieve things.

Great things, if you can.

But know that I was proud of you
before you ever accomplished
a damn thing.

I want you to help people.

Give.

Be generous.

Be the person who reaches back
when someone else is struggling
to climb.

But you do not have to carry everyone.

Some people will hand you their weight
and call it love.

You are allowed
to hand it back.

I want you to know when to leave.

A job.
A friendship.
A relationship.
A dream that became a nightmare.

Anything that demands
everything you have
and returns almost nothing
is allowed to end.

Leaving does not always mean
you quit.

Sometimes leaving means
you finally chose yourself.

I want you to rest.

Without explaining why.

Without earning it first.

Without lying in bed
making a list of all the things
you should be doing instead.

The world will still be there
when you wake up.

I promise.

And you will fail.

God, I hope you fail sometimes.

Because I don't want you
so afraid of disappointing me
that you spend your whole life
only attempting things
you already know you can do.

Fail spectacularly.

Call me.

We'll figure it out.

But never mistake
I failed
for
I am a failure.

And never believe
you failed this family.

You couldn't.

You are this family.

Most of all,

I don't want you to inherit
the belief that life
is something you endure.

I don't want you waking every morning
already exhausted
by everything expected of you.

I don't want survival
to become such a habit
that one day you look around
and realize
you forgot to live.

Build something different.

Build a life with mornings
you don't dread.

Find work that leaves
something of you
for the people waiting at home.

Laugh loudly.

Take vacations.

Waste an afternoon.

Fall ridiculously in love.

Change your mind.

Start over.

Sit outside when the weather is beautiful
even when there's work to do.

And when life inevitably becomes hard,
be strong.

But please-

don't become so good
at surviving hell
that you start calling it home.

I spent much of my life learning
how much a person can carry.

What I want for you
is simpler.

I want you to learn
how much you can put down.

And if everything I have done
means that you get to live
a little more gently
than I did,

then none of it
was wasted.

Take My Smile With You

And someday,
when I cannot walk beside you anymore,
don't carry my absence
heavier than you carried my love.

Take my smile with you
even when I'm gone.

Keep it somewhere
between the memories
that make you laugh
and the ones that make you cry.

And when you think of me,
don't think only of the man
who worked,
who worried,
who fought,
who carried more than he should.

Remember that I smiled.

And know
you were the reason.

The purpose.
The pleasure.
The joy.
The bliss.

Not the things I owned.
Not the things I built.
Not whatever name
the world remembers
or forgets.

You.

You were the part
that mattered.

So when my chair is empty,
when my voice exists only
in the corners of your memory,
when you would give anything
for one more conversation-

don't spend that conversation
telling me you miss me.

Tell me what you did.

Tell me where you went.

Tell me who you loved.

Tell me about the chances you took,
the mistakes you made,
the ridiculous things you laughed about
until you couldn't breathe.

Tell me you rested.

Tell me you walked away
when staying cost too much.

Tell me you failed
and got back up
without once believing
you disappointed me.

Tell me you built a life
you didn't need to escape from.

Because then I'll know
everything I tried to teach you
finally made sense.

And wherever I am-
if anywhere at all-

I'll be smiling.

So take my smile with you
even when I'm gone.

Wear it when life is beautiful.

Borrow it
when life is cruel.

And if someday
you catch yourself smiling
for no reason at all,

maybe that's me.

Or maybe
it's simply the piece of me
that I always hoped
I'd leave behind.

You.