I must have been too young to know my mind.
I fought against her coldness and contempt,
but damaged Mom was hiding how she’s kind.

I thought her rules were calculating, blind
to every goal and effort I’d attempt.
I must have been too young to know my mind.

She seemed too busy, deaf to me and blind,
as if my best ambitions she’d preempt,
but damaged Mom was hiding how she’s kind.

When I resisted any role assigned
to me by her, I thought I was exempt.
I must have been too young to know my mind.

It took three score of years and ten to find
the empathy to gather what she dreamt,
but damaged Mom was hiding how she’s kind.

At last, when she had thoroughly declined,
I saw through eyes like hers the good she meant.
I must have been too young to know my mind,
but damaged Mom was hiding how she’s kind.

(Villanelle)