My Mother Hated Me For Twenty Years and I'm Dead

My mom had plenty of reasons to hate me.

The first was that she blamed my dad for being “useless” and for being unable to save her first love.

My dad had been his surgeon, and when he couldn’t pull him through, all her anger shifted onto me and him.

Her first love, Tracy’s dad.

When he died, my mom was devastated, and she ended up adopting Tracy.

She swore, right there in front of his dying body, that she’d take care of her. But the first time I took Tracy out to play, she broke her leg.

And that was the moment everything between me and my mom broke for good.

That day also happened to be mine and Tracy’s birthday.

Dad was stuck at the hospital, and my mom had to work late.

So, I was the one left to take Tracy out.

She played the sweet, innocent card, asking if I’d take her to the river for a swim.

Wanting to be the good daughter, knowing how special Tracy was to her, I agreed.

But when we got to the river, she suddenly reached out and tried to push me in.

“If you die, then Mom will only have me,” she said, smiling like she had just won.

I fought back as hard as I could, trying to drag her in with me.

But in the struggle, she fell, hitting her leg on a rock, leaving her permanently injured.

That day, my mom beat me until I could barely stand.

Even now, after all these years, I can still remember sobbing like I’d never stop. It was the first time I thought about running away, and I did.

I wandered through the streets, wiping my tears, imagining how much she’d regret it if I disappeared.

But that naive thought ended up costing me the most important person in my life.

When my dad got home and realized I was gone, for the first time, he didn’t just stay quiet.

They had a huge fight, and then he went out to find me.

I was standing in the middle of the road when he saw me.

I still remember the panic on his face as he called my name, walking toward me, dodging cars.

I finally heard him and turned around, just in time to see him coming for me.

But before I could move, a car came speeding through.

And in an instant, I lost my dad forever.

At my dad’s funeral, my mom stood there, holding his ashes, completely emotionless.

When I approached, sobbing, to pay my respects, she slapped me hard across the face.

“If your dad’s dead, why didn’t you die with him?” she asked, her voice calm, almost detached. It wasn’t grief for her husband. It was anger that I, the burden, was still around.

“Mom…” I grabbed onto her coat, crying so hard I could barely speak.

But she pried my fingers off, one by one.

“From today on, you’re no longer my daughter,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. Then she walked out, taking my dad’s ashes and Tracy with her.

I stayed, kneeling on the cold floor of the funeral home, tears splashing onto the tiles.

For a moment, I thought maybe I should’ve died.

But then I realized that maybe it wasn’t me who should’ve gone.

Because when I looked up at the door, there was Tracy, smirking like she’d won.

And she had.

She’d turned my mom into hers, completely.

To my mom, I was nothing but a worthless mistake, a walking reminder of everything wrong in her life.