The Mother Who Hated Her Daughter

The first time I held my daughter, I knew we weren’t going to get along.

Don’t get me wrong—she’s a very sweet child. She looks adorable, speaks adorably, and is kind to everyone. I don’t know why, but I just can’t seem to bring myself to like her, to care for her, to adore her… to love her.

I must be a terrible mother. I’ve never once in my life looked at her with affection. I’ve never wanted to kiss her on her cheeks. I’ve never bothered with her education, either. She’s always been on her own. And honestly, as bad as this may sound, I genuinely don’t care about her.

I thought it was normal at first—to be so detached from your kid. I mean, we’re not obliged to like our kids, right? In the animal kingdom, they chew up their young ones when there’s no food. Sometimes I wonder if I’m any different. Sometimes I wish I could chew her up.

The sight of her fills me with dread.

I never wanted to have her.

I wish she was dead.

But I can never say this aloud.

So here I am, at her graduation. She’s an excellent kid. Straight A’s, great face. She’s the beacon of perfection. Yet I can’t seem to like her.

In her speech, she thanked everyone—but me the most. She said I ‘motivated’ her to work this hard. After her speech, she came walking up to me, put her cap on my head, and said,

“You don’t have to pretend anymore, Mom.”

And then she left.

That was the last day I ever saw my rapist’s daughter.