She never knew

I honestly just thought... this was a stage, you know? Every parent, every mother goes through this. The mother does everything they can to, to raise them right while the ungrateful daughter spouts unnecessary words of hate and slams doors.

Every mother goes through that.

But, no one ever told me, that there was a chance I was the one in the wrong. We were supposed to laugh about all the times we screamed at each other, my daughter getting older seeing my good intentions.

My husband, all my family scoffed and laughed with me, taking nothing she did or said as nothing more than the teenage stage of her life. As far as we could see, she was in the wrong. I was the mother, she was my child. She was mine to do with what I please.

That's what I was taught.

I gave her an easier life than mine. No bruises or lasting scars. Why does she call this abuse? I wondered. If there are no bruises, there's no abuse. Right? At least, that's what CPS told me.

The law said I did nothing wrong... so why did she?

She stopped telling me if my words or actions hurt her at around the age of 13. I thought it was because of age... I never considered the fact that I never cared anyway. I was the mother, it was my rules my way. There's nothing wrong with that. That's how it is, that's how it was taught. Didn't matter how I hurt her. If I did, she deserved it.

I was convinced my daughter hated me, but all mothers go through that too. It wasn't really confirmed until we went through her old belongings, and found years worth of writing explaining why she wanted me to die... exactly what I did wrong.

As I read on, seeing her hurting hate word after word, page after page, well into adulthood I still defended myself at every turn and accusation. I had my reasons, and I was right.

I was the mother.

I admit I cried, when I saw the things she called me, what she thought of me. I wanted to continue defending myself, but as I read on in such detail what my ill intent and carelessness did to her... even I had to admit, I might've been wrong.

Why didn't she talk to me? Why didn't she communicate her feelings? I read on hoping for an explanation, stunned when I saw it.

I didn't care. I never cared. I couldn't even defend myself and say she misread things because I said it. I looked her in her eye and told her that I don't care. I banned her from smiling,singing or being happy near me.

I don't remember these things. I'm sure I did this because she was an annoying child. She could never tell me how I hurt her because I wouldn't let her speak to me but when I did... I always argued and made her point seem invalid.

My daughter wrote all this at such a young age... and I still never cared.

When she was seven years old, she burst through the front door beaming and held up an art piece. It looked like a seven year old had drawn it. It wasn't good enough for the wall and I told her as much.

I got to read how she raced to her room in tears, and I laughed, without a care.

When she was nine she asked what I wanted for Christmas. I answered nothing unless bought from a black-owned business.

She drew a picture and placed it in a heart shaped frame from Meijer. Meijer isn't black owned, and the gift was tossed aside and left collecting dust for years.

That was the last year she gave me gifts for Christmas.

Mothers Day, she was fifteen years old. She had given up on giving me gifts, but she really wanted that Xbox. I read how she spent hours clipping, cutting, gluing and rhyming to make the perfect mothers day card.

I, of course ignored it, giving praise to the toddler's scribbles and sticks found on the floor.

I read on and on, about how I never cared, never showed love.

But... I was the mother, why should I? I gave birth to her, fed her, clothed her... wasn't that enough? Wasn't I enough?

But, I guess that was her point...

She never had me.

She had problems with her father as well, almost as bad as mine. She asked him to stop, and he never laid hands on her again. I never thought much of it though.

I never thought much of the fact that she could tell him anything, never had to lie to him, was genuinely happy with him. All our other kids were... but, like I said, I never thought much of it.

Well, I was the last one to know. I mean... of course I was.

35 years old and she still was slamming doors with such force, I never even knew they were there.

I wanted to apologize and repent, be rid of my guilt. According to her daughters, by the will of her law I wasn't allowed within 50 yards of her dead body.

I didn't even know she had daughters.

She told my husband, but not before he had signed a waver of secrecy... from me.

Just the thought of my presence gave her panic attacks at 15 years old. I did that. me. She blatantly wrote how she stopped loving me around the age of twelve.

But, what did I do?

I did what all mothers did... right?

As much as I want to believe that, the fact that I'm sitting on the steps of the library, 50 yards away from my daughter's funeral suggest otherwise.

I love my daughter, with all my heart, I always did. And yet somehow, she never knew.

I don't think it was my fault, but she never knew. She died and she never knew...she never knew.