I CAME FROM HER, BUT NOT LOVED BY HER

(From the child’s point of view)

—

I was seven when I realized I didn’t have a mother—at least, not the kind other children spoke of.

They came to school with neatly braided hair, lunchboxes packed with love, and stories about bedtime kisses and lullabies. I came with bruises on my knees, forgotten homework, and silence. Always silence.

She never called me by my name.

Just “hey” or “you.”

Sometimes worse.

To her, I was the weight tied to her ankle, dragging her dreams down with every step. I didn’t ask to be born, and I certainly didn’t ask to be born out of shame. But to her, my existence was a daily reminder of her mistake—a child without a father, a child she never wanted.

I was left with her mother, my grandmother, for most of my early childhood. And those were the only years that felt like safety. My grandmother spoke softly, gave me warm baths, fed me rice with her hands when I refused to eat. She told me stories, held me when I cried, and whispered prayers over me when I slept.

But prayers cannot stop time.

When my grandmother passed, everything ended. I was ten.

I still remember the way she looked at me at the funeral—my mother, I mean. She wasn’t crying. Everyone else was. She just stared at the casket, jaw clenched, hands in fists like she’d lost a war she never wanted to fight.

Later that night, she sat across from me and said, “You’re coming home with me. I don’t have a choice.”

She lit a cigarette in front of me, exhaled the smoke like a sigh she’d been holding for years.

“I didn’t ask for you,” she said. “Remember that.”

And I did. I remembered every single day after that.

—

Home was a small apartment with peeling walls and anger in the air. She hated cooking. She hated laundry. She hated coming home and seeing me on the couch, even if I’d been doing my homework.

I learned not to speak unless spoken to. I learned to stay in my room, even if I was hungry. I learned that love had rules and I’d broken all of them just by being born.

Once, I asked her why she never smiled at me like the mothers I saw on TV.

She laughed. Cold.

“Because I’m not pretending.”

—

At school, I stayed quiet.

My teachers noticed the bags under my eyes. My classmates noticed the way I flinched when someone raised their voice. But no one asked. And if they did, I said nothing. Because how do you explain to someone that your existence feels like an apology you never got the chance to make?

The truth is—I didn’t know what it was like to be held. Or wanted. Or missed.

Every time she dropped me off somewhere, it felt like relief. Not for me. For her.

Every time I did something right, she found something wrong.

I never got a birthday cake. Or a hug. Or a “you did well.”

—

One night, I woke up to the sound of her crying in the kitchen. I crept to the doorway, quietly, and watched.

She had her head in her hands, muttering, “I could’ve had everything… everything… if not for you.”

I didn’t cry. Not then.

I just went back to my room.

And lay awake, wondering how long I’d have to stay with someone who saw me as a life sentence.

—

I was still ten.

But I already felt like I had lived a lifetime.

A lifetime of blame.

A lifetime of being the burden no one asked for.

And yet, I had no choice but to carry it.

Every. Single. Day.