I was only two when she entered my life, and for years I convinced myself she loved me in her own way. I brushed off the favoritism, the privileges she gave my sisters but not me. I told myself she was trying her best, that maybe I was just difficult. But deep down, I knew—I was never truly hers. Every mistake I made was magnified, every good deed dismissed. I lived in her house, but never in her heart.
She raised me, yes, but always with a distance. I was the daughter of another woman, a reminder of a life she didn’t choose. She tolerated me, disciplined me, even praised me when others were watching. But behind closed doors, I was the cause of her stress, the wedge in her marriage, the outsider she had to endure. I tried for years to earn her approval, to be the daughter she could love. It never came.
When my father died three years ago, something shifted. I realized I’d been chasing a ghost—her love, her acceptance, her pride. I stopped trying to fix what was never mine to mend. She believes she raised us all equally, and maybe she did in her mind. But I know the truth now: I was never seen, never truly embraced. And that truth, as painful as it is, has set me free.
I’m planning to move out soon. Not out of anger, but for peace. I want to build a life where I’m not constantly seeking someone’s approval. I’ll always carry the ache of being unloved by the only mother I ever knew. But I also carry strength—the kind born from surviving silence, rejection, and longing. I’m done trying to be hers. Now, I’m finally becoming mine.
