The Thing You Know Better

I told her Felton Street was right,

even though I knew the truth was wrong.

Each morning, walking in the light,

I watched her backpack stuck too long.

The fence gate caught the nylon strap.

I said she'd learn to get through.

She said the way was a trap.

I said I knew better. It was true.

By week two the fabric had torn.

By week two she'd learned not to complain.

By week two I'd committed to the worn

lie that this was better. Again and again.

So we kept going down that street.

She kept squeezing. I kept lying.

The gate kept making them meet—

her small shoulders, my denying.

What kind of mother does this?

The kind who chose

and can't choose different.

The kind who mistakes

her own stubbornness

for love.

The strap still frays

when I think about it.

The gate still waits.

And I'm still

unable to say:

I was wrong.

I knew it.

I kept going anyway.