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This phrase echoed through my childhood. Anytime I was sad, disrespected, or grieving I was reminded to leave it behind.

Get over it. No use crying over spilled milk. The glass is now empty. 

But I was nine, and life had just started. This moment could have been different. 

I stopped sniffling as footsteps creaked on the wooden stairs. I knew who it was. There was only one set now. My mom sat on my bed, her silhouette purple and sharp framed against the soft yellow light pouring through the open doorway. She placed her hand on my leg. 

Honey, its been a month [since your dad and I got divorced]. Its time to stop crying. Get over it already.

I blinked in disbelief. This was the moment I saw a different side of her.

Accountability is too painful for narcissistic parents, so they project outward to avoid responsibility for their actions. This is a temporary solution, of course. Spilled milk reeks of regret.

People talk about their pain as a way to defuse its power. We openly discuss what is far behind us. 

I cant put milk back in the glass, but I can clean it up.

I can pour one out for all the times she dumped her fears onto me like a cold, cruel shower. 

And I can pour another glass for myself. I can toast how far Ive come. Cheers.