She had this diary, but it wasn’t for remembering fun stuff or happy times.
Nope.
It was all about the times I messed up.
Every little mistake, every word she didn’t like, every time I didn’t meet her impossible standards—she wrote it down like it was some kind of crime.
I found it once, left open on the table like she wanted me to see it.
Pages filled with my so-called failures. The time I forgot to take the bins out. The time I was five minutes late. The time I didn’t answer my phone fast enough. The way I said something that she didn’t like.
She kept score, and I was always losing.
It felt like she never missed a chance to point out my mistakes. But when it came to the good stuff? Forget about it. It’s like it never even happened.
No matter how hard I tried, it was never enough.
I started second-guessing everything I did. Every word I spoke. Every move I made. I learned to walk carefully, to anticipate her moods, to avoid adding another entry to her diary.
But no matter what, she’d always find something.
It made me feel like I couldn’t do anything right.
Like I was always walking on eggshells around her.
Like I wasn’t a person—just a list of things she could hold against me.
