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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A Mother recalls her failings and their consequences.

Submitted: June 27, 2016

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Submitted: June 27, 2016



She sat there, opposite me and stared into my soul. Her eyes were the darkest brown – just like her father’s.

My daughter – my enemy.

She is 22 now, and she behaves every year of it. She is reckless, yet poised and her moods can change on the flip of a switch. She is no longer a feeble child who relies on me for her every need – I do miss those days, as now she is no longer my charge, but now the aggressor in a relationship built on control.

My husband is a kind man – a man of great empathy and compassion, and these were not traits passed on to our youngest child. My daughter is cold, but manages to hide her insensitivity under layers of faux charm and thoughtfulness. She is a monster inside, but a blossoming flower on the out. She is loved and envied by many, yet known by so few.

My daughter’s hair flowed from her head to her waist – flowing waves of effortless black. I noticed the glorious shine from each tumble, and was being observed doing so. Her dark eyes pierce so sharply onto the object of her gaze. She does it purposely.

She wills me to suffer.

She wills me to hurt.

My daughter began to speak, and every word cut like a knife to my heart. She had rehearsed this in her head. I know it.

Each word tumbled out of her mouth, filled with venom and intent. I was scared and I was ashamed.

Her stare remained as she broke me down into the tiniest of pieces, and she felt no remorse. I could see that she wasn’t going to cave, and she wasn’t going to relent. She had snapped, and I had to pay.

I was the giver of the life that my actions eventually destroyed. I had to admit to myself, and to her, that I was a useless mother. I did not deserve the title.

I remembered thinking back to my daughter’s fifth birthday party, where she received a beautiful pink bicycle in front of all of her friends. She was jolted with excitement and I was so proud to have made her smile so much.

The day after her birthday, my daughter fell off the bicycle outside of our house – through the tears she presented to her father, I could see a look of betrayal reserved only for me, which lingered in her eyes.

That look never went away.

It never faded, it merely matured from childish betrayal, to adult disgust.

My daughter rose from her chair, with her eyes still fixated on mine – a challenge.

She continued to talk – slowly and precise. Each word chipping more and more at my emotions.

My daughter talked through all of my failures as a mother, and evaluated my worth as a human being. I had no resolve.

I closed my eyes to prevent the pain, yet the hurt would not subside. I tried to fumble around my mind for positivity, but even that had turned against me, as my inner voice agreed with the physical voice of my child in front of me.

My daughter leant in closer, and made sure she cornered me in the most terrifying way possible. I had pushed her too far, and now the time had arrived.

I apologised.

I apologised through tears.

I apologised with deepest anguish a mother could muster.

The physical knife ripped through me, with a tidal wave of pain.

I didn’t fight it.

The floor was my resting bed.

The floor became my solace.

I apologised again.

And just like that – absolution.

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