When I was 8 years old I wanted to die. When others would ask why I would say that I didn't know, but that was an obvious lie.
"You think I wanted her?!" My mother let out a strangled laugh before replacing the smirk on her face with a much more serious expression. "Never. The only reason she's alive now is cause she can bring in the big bucks."
That was the first time I had ever gotten home early. I wanted to show her the money I won for coming in every day for preschool. That's why I didn't play soccer with the big boys down the street from my preschool that day. The place where I was supposed to wait for the evening church bells to ring. That's when I was supposed to go home.
I knew it was weird that I was the only child who didn't get picked up by her parents. I didn't care if the kids made fun of me, or isolated me. All I needed was my mom. So this...this was brutal.
As a 5 year old most of those words didn't make sense to me but one thing was clear. She didn't want me. She never did.