Unfortunately or fortunately, you can’t choose your parents. Mom is alone, and you can’t speak ill of her. But I will tell it like it is.
God gave her intelligence, beauty, and luck. But her lack of tenderness and love made her a cruel person. She never denied us anything, never spared money or other benefits. However, pity or support was not about her. For some reason she believed that if children were loved and praised too much, they would get out of hand. We were praised by strangers.
My older sister didn’t complain. She was the pride of the school. Mom had to praise her, at least sometimes. But no one ever noticed me. Mom would call me capable, but then add “and lazy.” I grew up feeling like a defective person.
One day in kindergarten I was playing mosaic and put buttons in my pockets. When my mom came to get me, I forgot to put them back. Oh, what happened then! My mother beat me, humiliated me, and called me a thief in public.
She took me to kindergarten the next day and put me in front of the whole group. Then she started telling me how ashamed she was that her daughter was stealing. She turned to the children and said that it was better not to be friends with me.
I was an outcast. If someone lost something, it was immediately blamed on me. It was a real torture for a little child. At least I went to school with different thoughts. I hoped it would finally be over, but subconsciously I was preparing myself for ridicule.
I remember my mother bringing me with her to work and making me do my homework. She gave me money for lunch and sent me to the cafeteria. I don’t know what clouded my mind, but instead of the cafeteria I went to the stationery store. The day I bought notebooks without permission was fateful.
My mother grabbed me by the hair and dragged me home. All the people looked around and grabbed their heads. She banged my head against a boulder and screamed. At that moment she reminded me of an enraged beast, because people don’t do that. I couldn’t even stand up – my mother was kicking my legs.
In front of the class she repeated what she had done in kindergarten. It was as if she was enjoying humiliating me. Did she enjoy listening to me scream and cry. I can’t forget anything, I remember every detail. I am 50 years old now, and it still hurts and hurts me.
I loved her and I love her. And she loved me? I guess it was only her love that was special.
