My Mom Was The Villain Of My Story
A daughter’s untold journey
When I was a child, my preference was clear — I loved my dad more than my mom. How could I not? My mom was synonymous with scolding, shouting, and threats. She even hit me on some occasions, and I was afraid of her, that’s the truth.
On the contrary, my dad was synonymous with laughter, conversations, games, and gifts. Undoubtedly, he was my favorite. When my parents decided to separate, my choice was clear — I would live with my dad. But no, I had no say in it; I had to live with my mom. “Girls should live with their mom,” they said.
A couple of days after the separation, I went to our old home. My dad was still there, in an empty house. I still remember seeing him lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I was just a child, but I could see his sadness. I felt guilty and responsible for it. For me, he was a victim; he and I were victims, and my mom was the villain.
During my adolescence, my mom showed growing resentment towards me. My good grades and behavior were not enough for her; the scolding escalated, and it became easier to alter her mood.
I constantly felt jealous of my friends because their mothers weren’t like mine — loving and understanding, not yelling, always seeming cheerful.
I recall numerous occasions when she scolded me in front of my friends, even saying things that weren’t entirely true. I ended up in my room, shattered, crying, not understanding why there was so much hatred.
I asked her, “Why do you hate me?” Her response was always the same, “How could I hate you? You’re my daughter.” I didn’t understand why she said that when it reflected the opposite. I still remember her screams, her veins standing out in her neck, her angry gaze while clenching her teeth. None of that showed the love she was supposed to feel.
My adolescence was a battle between the two of us — her against me, and me against her.
As soon as I turned 18, and though I was already in college by then, her screams weren’t just screams anymore; they were demands for me to leave. “You’re an adult now, you know right from wrong, find a job or go live with your dad,” she’d say. Shortly after, she lost her job, and one of the most challenging times of our lives began.
Our lives diverged after that. We managed to overcome it, but independently.
Our paths were now different, but in my heart, I harbored resentment towards her.
In my eyes, she never supported me, never understood me, never stood by my side.
She was the villain of my story.
It took several more years for me to realize that…
Though my mom wasn’t about laughter, conversations, and games, she was the one who cared for me when I was sick, woke up early to heat water for my bath before school, and prepared my meals before leaving for work.
She was the one who went out of her way to get a camera and take photos of every birthday I had. Thanks to her, I have memories of my childhood.
She was also the one who, every year, made an effort to find the costume and accessories needed for me to have the most beautiful Halloween costume. Moreover, she was the one who walked for hours with me on that day, going from block to block to collect candies. All those memories I owe to her.
She never let a birthday pass unnoticed; somehow, she made sure to celebrate it. She always knew what I wanted, and only she could surprise me with the perfect gift on that day.
For my 15th birthday, being a capricious teenager, I randomly decided I wanted a party. Without questioning it for a moment, my mom organized raffles, took out loans, did everything in her power to give me the party I wanted.
It was also her who used her savings to pay for the first semester of my college when she barely earned half a minimum wage. She was the one who gave me my first cellphone when it was just a teenage whim because, at that time, a cellphone was still an unnecessary luxury.
It was my mom who was always there while my dad was conspicuously absent.
It was my mom who bore the brunt because it was her against the world, and I wasn’t there for her. I always preferred my dad, and she knew it.
Undoubtedly, she knew it. She knew that despite everything she did for me, I didn’t see it, I didn’t appreciate it. My actions always showed that my dad was the favorite, and if I could, I would have gone with him without hesitation.
What I didn’t see is how easy it is to “raise” a child from a distance. The visiting dad will always be the fun one; the shared time is so little that it’s not enough for even a scolding to take effect.
Certainly, my mom was always there, for better or for worse. She was the one who never gave up; she was the one who endured me. But I didn’t see that.
Now, as I reflect on our lives, I am more aware of who my mom was at that time, what she had to endure in life by then. It’s now that I realize the stressful situations she was facing when I only saw hatred in her eyes.
When my mom was my current age, she had already gone through two divorces and had two children still dependent on her. She didn’t have a family to lean on; she was alone. She didn’t have a career; she had barely finished school. But she was (and still is) the best manager that could exist.
She managed to always give us a roof over our heads and food, to give us love and scoldings in the only way she knew how.
My mom, full of voids, pains, and traumas from her past, managed to give us what she never had but always dreamed of having.
Now, I am aware that my mom was a warrior, and I don’t have even half of her strength. I don’t believe for a moment that if I had been in her circumstances and lived what she lived, I would have been half the mom she was.
My mom suffered, fought, and pulled us through, and she did it all alone.
