And that money

the several thousand dollars I worked for that you unceremoniously took from the bank account (without telling me), the reason I can never again have a joint bank account ever again (because trust issues); yet another thing it’s hard to forgive you for, Mother, & another reason I can’t trust you any further than I can throw you (and sometimes I really wanna throw you).  You helped yourself to that money because you didn’t approve of my spending habits.  I was a woman of thirty-five years old at the time, and it was my own money, but you didn’t give a rip.  Your friend the bank teller told you that because it was a joint account (something I’d agreed to years ago to shut you up) you had every right to that money.  So you took it, but not to spend, no.  To put I don’t fucking know where.  To fucking show me who’s boss.  

And it’s fine.  Really.  I don’t want the money back.  I want you to keep it.  I want you to leave it to one of your other daughters when you die, provided you leave a note explaining where it came from…so they know what you are as well as I do.  I don’t want the money, Mother, I just want no more secrets.