Almost every day, my mother slapped and beat me until my body was covered with bruises and turned blue. She also cursed me with cruel words—“stupid girl,” “useless girl,” “you’re a waste of my life,” “I gave birth to you only to serve me.” Sometimes she called me a dog, a bitch, a filthy girl, and even a whore.
I still remember every word she said and everything she did to me. I was just a little girl; of course, I didn’t know what the word whore meant. I asked my father what it meant, and he was shocked. He asked me where I had heard that word.
I didn’t tell him that my mother called me that almost every day when he wasn’t home.
Whenever my mother’s friends came over, she would proudly tell them that I was the child she had never wanted—that she had tried many ways to stop me from being born. She said she took different kinds of medicine to destroy the baby in her womb.
I heard everything, and my heart broke. I wondered where she got the money to buy those abortion pills. Later, I learned that she had been secretly stealing the household money that my father gave her to feed us.
She used that money to buy delicious food for herself, while my two brothers and I only ate rice and salt. I often saw her hiding good food that I had never even tasted before.
She told us that the food belonged to my father and hid it inside the wardrobe among piles of clothes. She threatened us, saying, “Whoever dares to touch or eat anything from this cupboard will die.”
One day, I asked my father, “Whose daughter am I really? Why is Mom so cruel to me?”
Finally, my father told me the truth. He said my mother was truly wicked and heartless. He had wanted to leave her long ago, but he always came back because of me.
He promised that he would do everything he could to send me to school—even to college—so I could escape from my mother’s control.
Then, Father told me how he first discovered just how cruel she really was. He said that one day, his grandmother had fallen inside her room. My mother saw it but didn’t help her—instead, she locked the door tightly. My father’s grandmother died that day.
After that, Father said he had returned my mother to her parents because he couldn’t bear her cruelty and wickedness anymore. But her parents came, crying and kneeling before him, begging him to take her back. My mother promised to change—but she never did.
From that moment on, my father’s love for her was gone. All that remained was regret—for marrying the wrong woman. He once told me that when he was young, three women had wanted to marry him, but he chose my mother… and it became his greatest mistake.
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