I remember when I was a child, I didn’t live with my mom. When she took us away from who I considered my family, who had cared for us since we were born.
“She took us with her and that’s when the trouble started.”
She mistreated us every day telling us we were useless. That’s how it was daily. Insults, screams, rudeness. One day our grandfather visited us, her dad. The Man didn’t love us. He tried to kiss me, hug me. Since I didn’t allow it, he made threats to his daughter. I don’t know what he told his daughter that she hit me until she got tired of his shouting at her to “Give it to her! Make her cry!
I remember, we were told the Man was dying. My brother and I went to see him. The Man wanted to hold my hand. I could not look at him. The same thing happened to his daughter.
God forgive me, but I could never call her Mom. Not even on her deathbed. That hurts me a lot. Sometimes I think I’m a very bad person. The thought that I’m a bad person never leaves me alone. The same thing happened with my Uncle. What kind of a family did I get, I think at times, but, thank God I said my daughters weren’t going to go through the same thing.
Storyteller Niña triste is a housewife from Mexico
