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…