I wish I could tell you the truth about my life. I wish I was sure you would understand. But you've shown me, over the last few weeks and months, that you don't want to understand, that you would rather live in your fantasy world than take the trouble to understand my real one.
I wish I could tell you that nagging me about going out and socializing only makes me more certain that there's nothing I'd rather do less. I don't like people. They're loud and rude and self-absorbed, and either they want things from me I can't give, or, much more often, they don't notice me at all.
I wish I could tell you that my writing seems to work best when I have a starting point, a touchstone to return to. I wish you could understand that it's not theft or laziness to spin out from someone else's idea, that it can actually add to a story, give it extra dimension and richness.
I wish I could tell you how sorry I am to be such a disappointment to you. But that would require you to tell the truth for once rather than trying to lie about being proud of me. I know you want to be proud of me, and that does count for something, but it still hurts to hear you forcing yourself to lie.
I'm sorry that I don't write literary fiction that still manages to both be uplifting and to live up to your high moral standards, and that I haven't given you the perfect son-in-law and the gorgeous grandchildren. I wish I could be the daughter you want. But I'm just the daughter you have.
There are a lot of things I wish I could tell you, Mom.
If only I believed you would listen.