Motherless

54

The bruises.
The scars.
The black eyes.
The bullying.
The names.

Every punch, every word, every night I felt small and helpless... I told myself it was my fault. That I must have deserved it.

But I don't believe that anymore.

I deserve love.
All the love I can get.
The kind that lifts you up instead of tearing you down.
The kind that heals instead of hurts.

And I'm so grateful I found it when I did. Because without it... I don't even want to imagine where I'd be. Without those people who chose me, who believed in me, who refused to let me fall... I might still be trapped in that endless cycle of fear and shame.

I remember the last words I spoke to my mother.

"I hate you."

At the time, it felt like the only thing that made sense.
Yes, I meant it then.
But now?

I don't hate her.
I just... feel sorry.

Hurt people hurt people. That's the truth I've learned.
She wanted love, but she didn't know what it looked like. She didn't know how to recognize it, or how to give it. All she had was survival, resentment, and a lifetime of being let down. Everything she showed me was a mask, a facade to hide what she couldn't face.

My father left.
He walked away when I was too small to understand.
And he left her too — my mother, a woman stuck with a child she didn't ask for, a life she wasn't ready for, a grief she didn't know how to process.

And yet... here I am. I forgive her.
Not because she deserves it.
But because I deserve peace.
Because I deserve to move forward without the weight of anger dragging me under.

I wrote her a letter once, trying to explain it all.
If it mattered to her... I'll never know.
Shortly after, she was gone.
She chose to leave this world by her own hand.

I've counted the bad in my life, the pain, the heartbreak, the fear, the endless nights of wanting to disappear... and yes, it outweighs the good.

But somehow, against all odds, I found happiness.

In my friends who stayed when others left.
In the people who chose to see me, really see me.
In my family who fought for me in their own ways.
And in him — Hector, who never let me feel small, who taught me I was allowed to be brave, who showed me what trust looks like.

And in myself.

I survived. I'm still here. I'm still choosing.

This is my time now.
I won't erase the past.
I won't ignore the shadows or pretend they don't exist.
But I'm taking control of what comes next.
I'm steering my story. Not an editor, not an author, not some invisible narrator. I am the captain now.

I don't know exactly where life will take me. Maybe I'll stumble. Maybe I'll fall. Maybe the pain will try to catch me again.

But I'll rise.
Every time.

The book ends here.
The chapters are finished.

But my life?
It's just beginning.

And I intend to write it beautifully, fearlessly, my way.

********

This is where the story ends.
Thank you for reading, for feeling, and for staying until the last page. This story was written with honesty and care, and I hope it found you when you needed it.
The book may be finished, but the journey continues on the page, and beyond it.
Thank you for being here.