It didn’t happen with a fight.
It didn’t happen with a formal goodbye.
It happened with silence.
She just… stopped saying “I love you.”
Not once. Not even accidentally.
Not after the last time she tried to kick me out.
Not after I finally stood up to her.
Not after I cussed her out and told her to look in the mirror.
It was as if the moment I stopped submitting, stopped begging for approval, stopped playing the role of the compliant daughter—she revoked love entirely.
Like it was hers to give.
Like it was never mine to receive unless I earned it.
Love Withheld Is Love Weaponized
For people like my mother, love isn’t a constant—it’s a commodity.
It’s transactional. Conditional. Revocable.
If I’m quiet, she’s sweet.
If I’m agreeable, she’s generous.
If I’m obedient, she says “I love you.”
But the moment I show strength?
Push back?
Name the manipulation?
She goes cold. Withdraws affection like it’s punishment.
She knows I’ll notice. That’s the point.
Her silence isn’t neglect.
It’s strategy.
The Book on the Stairs
Not long after she stopped saying the words, she placed a book at the top of the stairs:
You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me.
Front-facing. All alone. The only book left out in the open.
All other books?
Donated. Packed away. Given to friends.
But this one?
Left on display.
Like a curated guilt offering.
Like a breadcrumb from someone who doesn’t actually want to be followed.
It wasn’t just a memoir.
It was a message.
A stand-in for the words she refused to say.
“I won’t say it—but maybe this book says it for me.”
Or worse: “You don’t need it. Get over it.”
The Timing Wasn’t Coincidence
She stopped saying “I love you” the moment I stopped obeying the script.
The moment I challenged her.
The moment I disrupted the emotional balance she had spent a lifetime perfecting.
She didn’t stop out of hurt.
She stopped because she lost control.
And that’s what people like her do:
When they can’t control you through words, they control you through silence.
It’s quieter. Cleaner. Easier to deny.
“I didn’t say anything wrong.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“You’re too sensitive.”
But I’m not sensitive.
I’m awake.
Silence Isn't Healing—It's a Power Play
I want to believe she’s trying.
That maybe the book meant something.
That maybe the apology was real.
But “I’m trying” isn’t the same as
“I love you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I see what I did.”
She never says those. She never will.
Because trying means just enough effort to be perceived as trying—without the vulnerability, the mess, or the accountability.
What the Silence Tells Me Now
Her silence used to devastate me.
Now it reveals everything.
It says:
You challenged me, and I didn’t like it.
I don’t love you unless you behave.
You don’t get affection unless you stay small.
But I’m done being small.
I may never hear those three words again.
But I’ve said them to myself now—louder, clearer, and more honestly than she ever could.
And that’s where the healing begins.
—Elyssa 💛
Where softness, self-awareness, and emotional healing are allowed to coexist. Through reflective writing, grounding rituals, and intentional beauty, Sparrow Trades offers gentle support for sensitive souls learning to reconnect with themselves.
