She is my mother… Yet how it pains me to hear nothing but reproaches from her.
I am forty-one. By all accounts, I am a grown woman—married, with children, a home, a career. Yet inside, I am still that little girl who once searched her mother’s eyes, hoping for warmth, kindness, some small word of encouragement. Just once. Even a word, a hint that she is proud of me. But no… Even now, the wound burns fresh—the ache of a mother’s withheld love.
We were three sisters. I, the eldest. From childhood, I believed it was my duty to be her pride, her support, her “clever little girl.” The firstborn, the one who tried the hardest. Yet to my mother, it was never so. She never hid it. My middle sister was the “difficult” one—rude, skipping school, stirring up scenes—but she was forgiven. “She has strong character,” mother would say. And the youngest… she was the favourite. Quiet, gentle, neat. Mother once admitted she would check on her at night, frightened she might have stopped breathing—so fragile she seemed. And me? I might as well have been a ghost.
I bear no grudge against my sisters. Their lives are their own, and none of this is their fault. But the hurt lingers—not for them, for her. For my mother. All my life, I sought her approval. At school, I earned top marks, retaking even the rare fourth grade. I never gave cause for complaint—the perfect child. Never begged for toys nor threw tantrums. I only wished for her to be proud.
Yet every visit, the same words. “You’ve always been plain,” “Foolish girl, never doing things right,” “What went wrong with you?” I told myself it was her way—that she was tired, that she knew no better. But when behind you lies years of effort, sleepless nights with children, work, fighting for your family—only to hear, “You can’t keep a house,” “Your cooking is dreadful,” “Your children are wild,” “This place is a sty”—it wears you down.
When my son was born, she near pushed me back to work—”You’ll turn dim sitting at home! Don’t dawdle.” And when I returned—”There you go, chasing a job, neglecting your family. Useless careerist! And a hopeless one at that.”
Then, the same old dance. Comparisons. Again. And again. The youngest—so lovely. The middle—so clever, landed a good man, living well. And me? A mistake. Each time, I bite my tongue, lower my gaze, swallow the tears. Because if I speak—”Ungrateful child! Never satisfied!”
Sometimes I long to scream—”Mother, why don’t you love me? What did I do wrong? Why must you always cut me down?” But I cannot. I haven’t the strength. I am afraid. Afraid that if I spill all these years of hurt, she will turn away—vanish from my life. And I could not bear it. However much it aches—I cannot sever that last, frayed thread between us.
My husband says, “Tell her. Perhaps it will wake her. Make her see.” But he does not understand. For him, it is simple. For me, she is not just a person. She is the root, the air. Without her, I am but a stump. Even if she wounds me—she is my mother. And like a child, I still hope, against all hope, that one day she will say—
“Dearest, you’ve done well. I am proud of you.”
And still, I wait. As I have waited all my life.
