Whenever I’m in the park, and hear giggling sounds around me, I don’t become happy. You say who doesn’t become happy seeing children? It’s not the children you see. When I lift up my head, I always see their mothers. The supposedly loving and caring personality who’s the actual cause of that giggling. But that makes me want to puke. No, I swear I’m not a bad person. It’s just life. Life makes you feel things like that. Hate. Enmity. Jealousy. Yes, I was jealous in fact. Jealous of the children. I was jealous that they had such a person in their life as I did not. Did I do something in my past life to deserve this hell?
My mother, you ask. I can’t even use that word for her. She was the cause of this hell. The cause of the constant tears in my eyes. The cause of the scars on my heart that won’t go away. And the cause of this utter gloominess which overcomes everyday of my life.
I’ve tried to set that aside and move along with my life but you see, I’m cursed. That woman has put an everlasting spell on me. And nobody can remove that spell.
Every time I see a mother feed her child, I remember how mine would throw glass plates at me until I bled. Every time I see a mother hiding her child from the man smoking nearby, I remember how mine would smoke marijuana in the living room and give me cigarettes. Every time I see a mother singing her child to sleep, I remember how mine used to swear at me and choke me until I’d fall asleep.
And every time I see a mother loving her child, I remember how my mother loathed me so much that even her dog had more clothes than me, her own daughter.


People say that I’m cruel, that I have no heart. Maybe they’re right. But they don’t know the reason. They have a mother for God’s sake! I want to tell them, I’m not like this. I swear I’m not like this. It’s just life that’s cruel! It does things to you and your head. And so do the people. The people who are supposed to look after you and take care of you.
I want to tell them that it is not the person’s fault. That it’s not my fault. But the thing is, no matter how hard I try, they won’t believe me.
Perhaps they would’ve believed me if they had seen me a year ago, how I cried with my deceased “mother” in my arms.


Written by: Eesha Gill

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