Talking to Her Bedroom Door

Pacing before her mother's wooden face, the girl twiddles her thumbs, looking into the oaken grains just in front of her. Seeking to find her courage, but failing.
Melody stands before that door everyday. The speaker notes of the failings of her mother's love hewn onto her eyelids as she stares into the door before her with dreams of knocking.
Does she know how she feels? Does she see what sort of life has been imparted to her from this?
If she knew… would she take it all back? If she could, would she do it any differently?
Melody sighs. Her eyes look forward, locking onto the little section of hallway wall where her parents used to measure her height every year. They've stopped measuring, but she's 5'4" now. Two inches taller than last time. In those days with the drawn curtains she couldn't even bring herself to pull apart. Not for anything.
The last time she cared about her mother's opinion was the last time she wrote.
If she told her…
If she opened up…
If she knocked on that door…
Could things be… different? Or is Melody irreparably stuck where she is, changed because she could not change? Not the first time she saw her daughter cry. Not every time since.
Melody gazes into her mother's bedroom door, an arm's length away. She knows her mother is inside; she's laughing at the television. She's laughing.
But Melody is alone. Slumped against the wooden grains of her mother's gate. The wood holding her. And holding her back.
Every moment before that door is wasted. A barrier for entry. A blockade of tough love. 
A sob beside the tree no one hears fall.