# A Letter to Fyodor: Reflections on Motherhood and Writing
Written on
Chapter 1: The Reader in My Heart
Dear Fyodor,
Who do you envision as your audience? It's often said that understanding your reader is crucial. Stephen King writes for his wife, while I find myself pondering who I write for. Observing my children engage with my work brings me joy.
My eldest son reads with deep concentration, his brow furrowed in thought. I can sense his genuine feelings when he finishes a piece, closes the laptop, and looks my way. That fleeting moment, when his eyes reveal a spectrum of emotions, is incredibly precious to me.
In an instant, his expression shifts back to its usual calm demeanor, a hint of playful sarcasm dancing in his eyes, yet I can see his admiration. He tends to be reserved, making it challenging to draw out his feelings. Nevertheless, his actions speak volumes. “Mama, I enjoyed your article. You’re improving; keep it up. I sent you some money, go treat yourself.”
In contrast, my youngest is a whirlwind of emotions—stubborn, empathetic, and fiercely independent, he cherishes freedom above all else. Sometimes I think, "God must have decided to give me a child like myself to see how I would handle him." Parenting him, especially now that he’s a teenager, is no easy feat, but it’s certainly entertaining.
He reads leisurely, savoring every word, often pausing to ask me about unfamiliar terms. His laughter is music to my ears. He delights in the various ways I refer to you, Fediusha.
I haven’t often shared the darker chapters of my life with my children, particularly with my youngest, as I wished to shield him from distress. However, now that he’s older, he’s begun to inquire about my past. We talk about our misunderstandings and the triggers that haunt me.
When he read my previous letter to you, he found humor in it—until he reached the concluding paragraph. His demeanor shifted, and he turned to me, bewildered: “Wait, what? Where’s the rest? You didn’t finish the article?”
“It’s complete,” I replied.
“No way! You can’t end it like that! What happened next?”
“You’ll have to read my book to find out, my dear.”
“But what were you thinking? What were your feelings?”
“I just hoped they wouldn’t lock the door before I fell asleep. I didn’t even feel cold.”
“You must have been in shock. Mama, if your past has such destructive consequences, how terrible must it have been for you?”
His questions flowed as he struggled to comprehend my experiences.
“It’s good that you don’t understand. It means I’ve done well as a mother.”
A wave of pride washed over me as a parent. I felt the same satisfaction when my eldest remarked that he’s the only one among his friends who doesn’t grapple with psychological issues or require therapy. Despite my own struggles, I managed to raise two mentally healthy children—my greatest achievement.
“You ended your letter in a dramatic fashion—like a mic drop. You’re like NF,” he said, comparing me to his favorite rapper.
When your teenager likens you to someone they admire, it’s a sign that you’re doing something right.
“NF has this song where he converses with his fears, called ‘Intro III.’ The lyrics resonate with your writing style,” he noted.
Yes, that song is indeed powerful.
I’m grateful for the decision to write to you, Fedya, and for including that poignant paragraph in my letter. It wasn't an easy choice. It’s not shame I feel about my past or who I am, but rather a fear of confronting the monster within me if I open that door.
It’s amusing how people perceive my avoidance of conflict as kindness or weakness. If only they knew; it’s because I understand that I might not stop once I engage. I relate to those cinematic characters who isolate themselves, only to be approached for help, often wishing to escape their past, yet unable to do so.
In a previous article, I wrote about the necessity of confronting evil with strength. When you grow up among monsters, you become adept at recognizing them. You don’t need specialized training; their patterns become familiar, as do their fears.
As I reflected on this, my son’s question shifted my thoughts.
“Do you remember the song about his mother?”
“The one that made me cry?”
“Yes, it’s titled ‘Mama,’ but there’s another one—‘How Could You Leave Us?’ He cries in that one, too.”
We listened to both songs, and of course, I cried. But that’s okay. As my elderly friend says, “Cry if you need to; it helps relieve the burden.”
My previous letters to Fedya are here.