She Loved Me Only After Death

My mother was a "butterfly baby." The slightest touch could tear her skin, leaving painful blisters and weeping sores.

To protect her, my father lined our entire house in expensive silk. Nothing sharp was allowed inside. I loved painting, but brushes were banned. I loved music, but violins were forbidden. Every dream I ever had was snuffed out before it could even begin, all because of my mother’s illness.

My father always looked at me with that tired, pleading expression. "Your mother is sick, Mia. You have to be patient with her."

But back then, I was only four years old.