The Memories I Never Had

The truth is… when I think back on my childhood, I don’t have the kind of stories most people share with ease. No bedtime tales, no birthday candles, no warm “first day of school” photos tucked neatly into an album. My memories aren’t snapshots of joy — they’re scattered fragments of survival.

There are so many blank spaces where memories should be. No one ever told me about my first laugh, my first crawl, or the silly toddler things I must’ve done. Did anyone clap when I took my first steps? Did anyone lean down, arms open, cheering me on? I’ll never know. Those moments — if they happened — were never told to me.

Instead, I remember the silence. The emptiness. The questions I asked myself when I got old enough to understand what I had missed.

I don’t remember my mother celebrating milestones, or even being present for them. Did she smile when I spoke my first word? Did she kiss my forehead when I ran a fever? Did she even notice when I fell and scraped my knee? I don’t recall any of it.

And that’s the truth that still lingers — I don’t recall.

You would think, being an only child, my mother and I would’ve had a bond. That she would’ve wanted to see me shine, to cheer me on, to be my safe place when the world laughed. But instead, there was distance. Silence. Coldness.

And sometimes I wondered if the real reason was this: every time she looked at me, maybe she didn’t just see me — maybe she saw him. The man who left her. The man who left us both. And maybe, just maybe, that made me the short end of the stick from the very start.

But where does a child place all that pain? Where does a child put the questions no one will answer?

To be continued…

The Short End of the Stick

I still wonder… how does a mother leave her only child alone — lying in a crib, or maybe just a bed — soaked in a soiled diaper, crying in pain until my great-grandmother found me trembling and raw? How does a mother turn away from that sound?

I can’t remember much about being a baby, but I do know what I don’t remember. I don’t remember birthdays with my mother. I don’t remember my first steps, or the first words I ever spoke. I don’t recall her cheering when I cut my first tooth or slipping a coin beneath my pillow when it fell out. I don’t remember if I was breastfed, if I rolled over on time, or who taught me how to use the potty.

It’s not just the memories I don’t have — it’s the silence where they should’ve been.

The only vivid childhood memory I can reach back for is the day of a school talent show. My mother took me shopping, and for once I felt like I looked the part — my clothes matched, my ponytails were neat, and I even had a little brim hat to top it all off.

But the moment I stepped onto that stage and saw the crowd, I froze. My mother and great-grandmother were sitting in the front row, watching. I was supposed to dance — maybe with a partner, maybe with a group — but I couldn’t move. After a few long seconds, I kicked my little leg and ran off the stage. The sound of the crowd laughing still rings in my ears.

I’ve asked myself since: was there ever a rehearsal? Did my mother practice with me at home, encourage me, or try to hype me up before that day? I don’t recall.

And that’s the truth that haunts me — I don’t recall.

You would think, being an only child, my mother and I would’ve shared a bond. You’d think there would be stories, memories, closeness. But there wasn’t. Instead, there was distance. Coldness. And I’ve often wondered… when my mother looked at me, did she really just see him? Did every glance at my face remind her of the man who left her? Was I nothing more than the living reminder of what didn’t work out?

I wasn’t asked to be here. I didn’t choose this life. And yet, somehow, I ended up carrying the weight of choices that were never mine.

And even now, as I write this, disappointment sits heavy in my chest. The tears come, because the question remains:

Why do I have to carry this pain? Why me?

To be continued…

A Childhood Not My Own

When I was formed in my mother’s womb in the early 70s, I had no clue what kind of story I was being born into. I came into a world already bruised by chaos, segregation, and wounds I couldn’t see — wounds my mother carried long before I took my first breath.

She was barely more than a child herself when she had me. A child who had already lost her own mother in the most violent way imaginable. My grandmother… murdered by the hands of a man who would later climb into a pulpit and preach about God. Can you imagine? A murderer turned preacher. To this day, I still shake my head.

The story was whispered to me in pieces. My great-grandmother — the one who tried to hold our family together — told me how she once confronted the man about killing her daughter. He didn’t break down. He didn’t confess. Instead, he allegedly struck her with a cast iron skillet. He walked away untouched. No charges. No justice. Just silence. Just pain.

And I often wonder… how did my mother survive that? What went through her mind when she learned her mother was gone forever? Did she fall apart inside? Did she learn to swallow her grief so no one would see? Did she cry for help, or did she just bury it and keep moving like nothing happened?

Then there was me. Born to a man who vanished as quickly as he appeared. My great-grandmother once told me, “If he stood in front of me today, I wouldn’t know him.” That’s how absent he was. A vase of flowers in a hospital room was the last trace of him.

And my mother… was she ready to love me? To care for me? Maybe she wanted to. Maybe she didn’t know how. I’ve been told stories — stories I can’t un-hear. Like the day she left me alone in the house with a soiled diaper. By the time my great-grandmother found me, I was trembling, hungry, raw with rashes that burned. She said when she tried to clean me, I screamed louder with every touch, my little body fighting against the sting of neglect.

Where was my mother? Out in the streets, lost in a world I’ll never truly understand. My great-grandmother looked at her one day and said, “This child is on her way to hell.”

And maybe that’s where my chapter really begins… not in the safety of a mother’s arms, not in the protection of a father’s presence — but in the hands of a great-grandmother who had already carried too much pain of her own.

But here’s the thing: pain doesn’t just vanish. It seeps. It lingers. It trickles down from one generation to the next.

The question is — would I carry it too?