Born To Die

Motherless?

Six Years Later

I was six when Dad started really talking to me about her. He always seemed nervous when he brought her up, like he wasn't sure how much to say or if I'd even understand. But I already knew. I wasn't like other kids—I could feel it. There was something different about me, something bigger than just being "Dad's little girl." And then there was the altar.

Dad built it for me in the backyard, tucked away behind the old oak tree. It wasn't very big, just some smooth stones stacked neatly with a small bowl where I could leave offerings. Flowers, mostly. Sometimes honey or candles when Dad could find them at the store. He called it an altar to Aphrodite, my mom. My mom. The word never really felt real. Other kids had moms they saw every day—mine was a goddess, apparently.

Dad told me all about her. About how she was the goddess of love and beauty, how people would pray to her in ancient times, asking for help with their hearts, their lives. But when I stood there, in front of the altar, staring at the sky, I didn't feel anything. I didn't hear her voice or see any sign that she even knew I existed.

"Just talk to her, Isla," Dad would say. "She might not answer right away, but she's listening."

So I tried. Every day after school, I'd stand at the altar, close my eyes, and talk to the sky like she was somewhere out there. It felt kind of silly at first, like I was talking to no one. I'd tell her about school, about my friends (or the lack of them), about how sometimes I felt like I didn't fit in. I'd ask her questions too—questions I knew she probably wouldn't answer. Why didn't she want to see me? Did she even care about me? Why was I so different?

But nothing ever happened. No voices, no whispers in the wind, no sign. Just the sound of leaves rustling or birds chirping in the distance. I would leave my little offerings, flowers that I picked from the garden, and walk away feeling... empty. Like I was reaching out to someone who wasn't reaching back.

"Why doesn't she talk to me, Dad?" I asked one night, after dinner. I was sitting on the floor of the living room, my back against the couch, fiddling with a toy. Dad was in his usual chair, flipping through one of his books on Greek mythology. He looked up at me, his face softening.

"It's not that she doesn't care," he said gently. "Gods don't always work like we expect them to. She has her own ways of showing you she's there. You'll see, Isla."

I didn't argue, but I wasn't convinced either. How could a mother just ignore her own child like that? Even if she was a goddess, wasn't I supposed to matter?

I wanted to matter to her. I wanted to feel like I belonged, like there was some reason I was different from everyone else. But every time I stood in front of that altar, I felt small. Invisible.

And yet, no matter how frustrated I got, I kept going back. Because deep down, some part of me believed—hoped—that one day, maybe, she would finally hear me. Or better yet, answer.
School wasn't exactly my favorite place. It wasn't just the worksheets filled with words that danced on the page or the teachers' frustrated sighs when I couldn't sit still during lessons. It was the kids. They didn't need a reason to make fun of someone, but I gave them plenty.

"Motherless Isla"—that's what they called me. They whispered it in the hallways, snickered during lunch. They all had moms who came to pick them up after school, who helped them with their homework or showed up for parent-teacher conferences. I had Dad, who did his best, but the fact that no one ever saw my mom made me a target. And no way was I about to tell them that my mom was supposedly Aphrodite. Even I didn't believe it half the time.

"Where's your mom, Isla?" one of the boys sneered at me during recess. "Doesn't she want you?"

I clenched my fists, staring at the ground. My face burned, but I kept quiet. Responding just made it worse.

"Maybe that's why you're so messed up," a girl added, laughing with her friends. "No wonder you can't read right—you probably don't have anyone to help you at home."

It was always the same. They'd laugh about how I had "special" help in class, how I read slower than everyone else. Some days it was easier to ignore them, to let their words roll off me like water. But other days, like today, the words stuck.

"Leave me alone," I muttered, hoping that would be enough.

But they weren't done.

"Or what? You gonna cry to your imaginary mom?" another boy sneered. "Oh wait, she's not real!"

I felt something inside me snap. Before I could stop myself, I shoved him. Hard. He stumbled back, surprised, but his shock quickly turned into anger.

"You freak!" he yelled, charging at me.

Before I knew it, we were wrestling in the dirt, kids forming a circle around us, cheering like it was some kind of show. I didn't care anymore. All the frustration, all the confusion about who I was, about why I was so different—it all came flooding out. I swung, I kicked, I screamed. But mostly, I just wanted it to stop. I wanted them to stop seeing me as some broken, motherless kid who didn't belong.

A teacher eventually pulled us apart, dragging me away while the other kids looked on, some laughing, others whispering. I was shaking, my heart pounding in my chest. The anger burned hot inside me, but beneath it was something else—something colder.

After the fight, I was sent to the principal's office. They called Dad, and he came as quickly as he could. He wasn't mad, not really. But I could see the worry in his eyes as we drove home in silence.

That night, I sat by the altar, staring up at the stars. I didn't say anything. What was there to say? I felt like I didn't belong anywhere—not at school, not in my own head. And the idea that my mom was this powerful goddess who didn't even bother to show up? It made me feel even smaller.

I knelt down, placing a small daisy on the altar. "If you're really out there," I whispered, my voice shaking, "why don't you care? Why won't you help me?"

The night stayed quiet, the only answer the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. I stayed there for a long time, waiting for something, anything. But, like always, there was nothing.

Maybe Dad was wrong. Maybe I wasn't special. Maybe I was just broken.