writing

Skincare Won’t Save You from Being a Terrible Person

~ Rochelle ~ Leave a comment



When the ugliest thing in the room is the way you treat people.

She thought they were friends.

She thought it was safe to speak.

She was wrong.

My daughter overheard a conversation between girls she believed were her friends. They were talking about skincare — lightheartedly, like many 13-year-olds do — and one girl mentioned she was going shopping with her parents for some products. My daughter smiled, joined in the conversation, and suggested a skincare brand she genuinely loves.

That was her crime.

It wasn’t to one-up. It wasn’t to shame. It wasn’t to hurt anyone.

It was just a human being joining in a conversation she was already invited into.

But the girl she responded to wasn’t a friend at all.

She was a fraud.

Instead of accepting what was clearly a thoughtful and friendly contribution, this girl twisted it into something cruel. She ran to others — perhaps hungry for attention, perhaps poisoned by her own insecurity — and said:

“She only said that just as I was starting to feel confident about my skin.”

As though my daughter’s words were a surgical strike.

As though she had any malicious intent.

As though talking about skincare — during a skincare conversation — is bullying.

This wasn’t sensitivity. This was strategy.

And it worked. Because others believed her.

But here’s the truth:

You cannot beautify a heart that is rotten.

This girl — so concerned with the clarity of her skin — doesn’t realise that her soul is the thing that actually needs healing. Her face may one day glow with the most expensive serums in the world, but what lives inside her?

Cruelty.

Bitterness.

Calculated deception.

There is no product on this planet that will cleanse that.

And her best friend?

She tried to test my daughter — and failed miserably.

Later, her little sidekick thought she was being clever. She messaged my daughter and said:

“You look exactly like [the girl who took offence to the skincare comment].”

She expected my daughter to be insulted. To flinch. To squirm.

But what she didn’t realise is that her statement was an insult to her own best friend. If she genuinely thought looking like her friend was a put-down, then she just exposed how little she actually thinks of her.

And my daughter? She didn’t blink.

“Thank you,” she said, with a quiet grace they will never understand.

Because her worth isn’t built on fragile games.

Because her confidence comes from within.

Because she knows how to be kind, even when others are acting ugly.

What they don’t understand is this:

People who are truly beautiful never try to destroy others.

It’s easy to mock, exclude, twist, and hurt — especially in the age of WhatsApp and group chats and fake smiles in school corridors.

But it takes strength to stay soft.

It takes integrity to stay kind.

It takes courage to speak your truth — and not shrink when someone tries to cut you down for it.

My daughter has that courage. She has that strength. And even in the face of cruelty, she’s still trying to be kind.

But make no mistake: this wasn’t a misunderstanding. This was manipulation, played out by girls so obsessed with being the main character that they had to rewrite a story just to feel important.

And in the process, they showed the world exactly who they are.

⸻




You Drew Blood on a 13-Year-Old’s Face

~ Rochelle ~ Leave a comment

This Is Not Just a Doodle

You didn’t just scribble over a photo.

You drew a target.

You took the image of a real girl—a child—and desecrated it with violence. You covered her in metaphorical blood. You sent a message: She is nothing. She is disposable. She is hated.

You knew what you were doing.

And don’t even pretend it was a joke.

⸻

Hate Is a Choice. You Made Yours.

There is a word for what you did: dehumanisation.

It’s what people do before they commit acts of cruelty. Before they gang up. Before they destroy.

And it always starts the same way—by erasing the humanity of the person they’ve chosen to hurt.

You joined a hate group with eight others. You added a deceased  girl to that group—one who knew exactly what bullying felt like. And then, as if that weren’t enough, you bled red ink all over a young girl’s face like it was entertainment.

What does that make you?

A follower?

A coward?

Or something worse?

⸻

Do You See Yourself Yet?

The truth is, this is no longer about my daughter’s shoes. Or her voice. Or whether she corrected a spelling error. You don’t even know what you hate her for anymore.

You just hate her.

Because someone else told you to.

And that makes you small.

That makes you easy to control.

That makes you someone who would deface a photo, not because it made you feel brave, but because it made you feel like you belonged.

But here’s the lesson:

If your place in a group is earned through cruelty, then you were never accepted to begin with. You were used.

And now you’ve got a stain on your conscience that not even time will erase.

⸻

A Girl Bled for Real. And You Still Drew Red.

Melody.

She died five weeks ago.

She lived through trauma that none of you could bear to speak of when she was alive—and now you’ve dragged her ghost into a hate group. What kind of person does that?

My daughter stood at her funeral with real tears, real loss, and real grief in her heart.

You?

You made a spectacle of yourself, and then you used her name in a group chat meant to destroy someone else.

You didn’t just cross a line.

You incinerated it.

⸻

What You Will Remember

There will come a night when you lie awake, older than you are now, and you will think of that photo.

You will remember the peace sign.

The face of a girl you hated for no reason.

The scribbles.

The blood you painted on her cheeks.

And the way your stomach turned when you realised—

You were the villain.

That moment will find you.

And it will stay.

⸻

Learn This Now. Before It’s Too Late.

Because maybe you’re still redeemable.

Maybe you’re still a child who made a terrible choice and needs to make it right.

But if you don’t?

If you let this kind of hate define you?

Then you are exactly what you made my daughter out to be:

Unrecognisable.

⸻

Don’t Get Mad—Get Clear: Why Language Matters More Than Your Pride

~ Rochelle ~ Leave a comment

Words Build Bridges—But Only When They’re Understood

It’s hard being told you’ve made a mistake. Especially when it’s something as personal as your own words—your thoughts, your expression, your message. But here’s the truth: communication isn’t just about getting your feelings out—it’s about making sure others can actually understand them.

When you’re careless with spelling or grammar, you’re not just being “creative” or “casual”—you’re making it harder for others to connect with what you’re saying. And when someone gently corrects you, especially in a group where others are confused, it’s not an attack. It’s clarity. It’s connection. It’s actually kindness.

⸻

Miscommunication Feeds Misunderstanding

So many fights between friends, classmates, or online groups begin because of one thing: someone misunderstood what someone else meant. And often, that’s because the original message was rushed, messy, or full of errors.

Yes, it’s okay to make mistakes. But if people are telling you they don’t understand what you said, that means there’s a breakdown in connection. That’s your moment to fix the bridge—not set fire to it.

⸻

Being Corrected Is Not Being Attacked

If someone politely says, “I think you meant this” or “Do you mean XYZ?”—they’re not trying to shame you. They’re trying to clarify something so others can understand it too. That’s not bullying. That’s not “being rude.” That’s someone actually making the effort to keep the conversation clear and flowing.

When you snap back or get offended, you shut down learning—and you make the person trying to help feel like they’ve done something wrong for simply wanting everyone to be on the same page.

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Grammar Isn’t Just School Stuff—It’s Social Survival

Think of grammar and spelling like road signs. If all the signs on the road were spelled wrong, nobody would know where to go. There would be crashes and chaos. It’s the same with communication. Your sentence is a map to your thoughts. If the map is blurry, no one can follow.

This isn’t about being “perfect” or “posh.” It’s about making sense. It’s about being heard.

⸻

What You Can Learn From This

If someone corrects your spelling or grammar:

• Pause. Take a breath.

• Ask yourself: Was my sentence confusing?

• Ask: Is this person trying to help others understand?

• Say: Thank you. Because guess what? They cared enough to help you be understood.

⸻

Be Bigger Than Your Ego

Getting defensive over a correction wastes your energy and pushes people away. It creates walls instead of windows. If you’re serious about being heard, seen, and respected, you have to take responsibility for how you speak and write.

Language is power—but only if people can actually understand what you’re trying to say.

⸻

TO THE KIDS WHO FEEL CONFUSED OR OFFENDED

You’re not weak for feeling hurt. But you are stronger when you choose to learn instead of lash out. Every time someone clarifies something you said, it’s a chance to grow sharper, stronger, and more connected to the world around you.

Don’t waste that chance. Don’t waste your voice.

⸻

What They Should Be Feeling

~ Rochelle ~ Leave a comment

You didn’t put her in the ground. But you were part of the reason she couldn’t stand to be here anymore.

⸻

She’s gone. And you kept living like nothing happened.

Not a flower at the gate.

Not a card. Not a candle.

No teddy bears. No quiet circles of grief.

No stunned silence in the hallway.

Just school. As usual.

Laughter. As usual.

Cruelty. As usual.

And that’s the most damning part of all.

When a child dies and no one flinches, no one gathers, no one mourns—what does that say?

What does that reveal about the people who surrounded her in her final days?

⸻

You didn’t have to kill her to help erase her joy

She was already avoiding school. She was already staying home, afraid to walk the halls.

She was already dreading each morning.

She was already broken long before her final breath.

And you knew that.

Some of you saw it.

Some of you laughed at it.

Some of you made it worse.

And now—she’s gone.

Whether her death was an accident or not isn’t even the point anymore.

The point is: her life became unbearable—and some of you made sure of it.

⸻

To the one who told her to kill herself—

Are you sleeping well?

Do you hear your own voice in the dark?

Telling her the exact thing that so nearly came true?

What did you expect? That your words would disappear?

That she’d bounce back? That she’d just laugh it off?

She didn’t.

She didn’t laugh.

She didn’t bounce.

And now you will have to live with that voice in your head for the rest of your life.

The one that said it. Out loud. To a girl who is no longer here.

⸻

To the parents of the bullies—what exactly are you raising?

Do you still believe your child is “just a kid”?

Do you still think it’s harmless teasing?

Do you still tell people your child would never be that cruel?

Because here’s the truth: they were. And they weren’t alone.

Your child’s words might not have ended her life,

but they chipped away at it,

day after day,

until it barely felt worth living.

If that doesn’t shake you to your core, you’re failing your child just as much as they failed her.

⸻

You don’t get to rewrite what you did

She’s gone.

You can’t take back the texts.

You can’t undo the silence when she sat alone.

You can’t reverse the decision to “just walk away” while she was drowning in humiliation.

You don’t get to decide now that you “weren’t part of it.”

You were.

And even if you weren’t throwing stones—you still stood and watched her get hit.

That makes you part of the damage.

That makes you part of the story.

⸻

Imagine what her last month could have looked like

She could have laughed more.

She could have come to school without fear.

She could have sat with friends at lunch,

instead of hiding in corners or staying home completely.

She could have made memories.

She could have felt light, even once.

But she didn’t.

Because of you.

Because of your kids.

Because of what this school allowed.

⸻

The lesson?

If you are cruel to someone,

and they die—accident or not—you are not innocent.

If your words drained the colour from her days,

you don’t get to pretend your hands are clean.

You don’t get to look the other way now.

You helped dim her light.

You helped teach her that the world was unkind.

You helped make life unbearable, even if you didn’t make death inevitable.

And if that doesn’t haunt you—

you’ve learned nothing.

⸻

No Flowers at the Gate: What Silence Says When a Child Is Gone

~ Rochelle ~ Leave a comment

When a School Forgets, the Pain Echoes Louder

There were no flowers tied to the school gates.

No ribbons.

No teddy bears.

No candles.

No cards.

No signs of heartbreak.

No signs that a child—one of their own—had just disappeared forever.

If this was truly unexpected… where is the shock?

If this was truly an accident… where is the devastation?

What we see instead is silence. An eerie, telling silence that speaks volumes about what this community really feels—and what it doesn’t.

⸻

The Hidden Cost of Protecting Bullies

This student—bright, fragile, kind—was hidden away from regular classes “for her own protection.” Her attendance faded. Her light dimmed. She was removed from classrooms rather than removing the ones tormenting her. She was made invisible, as though her pain was inconvenient.

The bullies? They stayed. They were allowed to learn, laugh, exist—untouched.

The school didn’t teach accountability. It taught cruelty a safe place to thrive. It showed the entire student body that if you push hard enough, we won’t protect the victim—we’ll erase them. Quietly. Without fuss. Without justice.

And now they’ve erased her completely.

⸻

No Signs of Grief, No Symbols of Shock

In the wake of any true tragedy—especially the sudden, accidental death of a child—you expect to see a community shaken to its core. You expect flowers. Cards. Mourning students clustered at the gates. A ripple of grief that cannot be contained.

But here? There’s nothing.

Not a single child has tied a ribbon.

Not a single tribute stands at the place where she once walked.

This isn’t just silence. It’s willful erasure. It’s guilt. It’s complicity.

Because deep down, they all know.

They know what she endured.

They know how many years she was targeted, pushed, alienated.

They know what they said to her—and what they didn’t say when it mattered.

They know what kind of school culture allowed this to happen.

So there are no flowers. Because that would mean facing it.

And facing it would mean admitting they were part of it.

⸻

What Are We Really Teaching Our Children?

The message is loud and clear:

If you are cruel enough, the school will protect you.

If you are suffering, we will hide you—then forget you.

This is not just a tragedy. It is a teaching moment lost. A warning silenced. A life erased without consequence.

What the school is doing now—brushing it under the rug, refusing to speak her name, pretending nothing happened—is the same thing they did when she was alive. Deny. Minimize. Move on.

But the pain lingers. The questions remain. The truth doesn’t go away.

⸻

Silence Isn’t Respect—It’s Evasion

Some say we should respect her memory by not asking questions.

But how can you respect someone’s memory if you won’t even acknowledge their pain?

How do you honor a life while pretending the cruelty that shadowed it never happened?

This isn’t respect. It’s fear.

It’s fear of accountability.

It’s fear of confronting the toxic culture that was allowed to flourish under their watch.

And that fear has cost a life.

Let this not be another forgotten name.

Let this silence not be the final word.

⸻

🕊 A Message From My Heart — About the Recent Tragedy, the School’s Email, and What I Truly Meant 🕊

~ Rochelle ~ Leave a comment
Screenshot

I never imagined I’d be writing something like this – especially not after something so heartbreaking.

As many of you know, a local teenage girl recently passed away. A beautiful soul – gone far too soon.

In the midst of deep grief, I made a private post in a mums’ group. I didn’t mention any names. I didn’t mention the school. I never claimed to know exactly what happened. I simply expressed what many others were already quietly wondering – whether long-standing, well-known bullying could have played a role.

Because the truth is – this young girl had not attended school for weeks, possibly months. She had been severely bullied for years, by the same students, all the way from primary into high school.

And yes – there are text messages that clearly referenced painful thoughts. (These are now known and will be passed to the appropriate people.)

So no –  it was never my intention to spread misinformation or make accusations.

It was never about blame.

It was about grief. Shock. Patterns too painful to ignore.

What truly confused and shook my daughter – and many others – was a message she received from the girl’s mother shortly after her death:

“Don’t let the bullies win.”

That one sentence has been echoing in our home.

But now, we are told by the school and others that this was simply a tragic accident – and had nothing to do with bullying.

And I want to say: I hear that. I accept that. And if this was a complete and unrelated tragedy, then I am truly, genuinely sorry for ever implying otherwise.

But I also want to say this…

⸻

The School’s Email Felt Like a Public Shaming

Today, the school issued an email that referred to my post, stating it made “incorrect claims” and was “not factual.”

Let me be very clear:

  • I never claimed to know the full truth.
  • I never identified the child, the school, or any individuals.
  • I spoke from a place of concern, sadness, and compassion.

The fact that this email was sent to the entire parent community felt like a public attack on my character, as if I had maliciously spread lies – which I did not.

And now, I’m being bullied – again – by the same group of mothers whose children have bullied my own daughter for years.

The irony and pain of this is not lost on me.

⸻

So, Here’s What I Want to Say

Before I receive any more hate…

Before I’m judged or blamed or shamed any further…

Let me raise my hands and say: I’m sorry.

I’m sorry if my post caused anyone more pain in an already heartbreaking time.

I’m sorry if it came across as insensitive – that was never, ever my intention.

I now understand that the family believes this tragedy was not related to bullying, and I respect that. And I will never speak over a grieving parent.

But please, understand that I am grieving too.

My daughter is grieving her friend.

And so many of us are just trying to make sense of a senseless loss.

The coincidences, the history, the silence – it all left us stunned. The emotion behind my post came from that space.

⸻

Let’s Remember Why This Hurts So Much

Because a child has died.

A beautiful child who should still be here.

Let’s not let our fear of being wrong make us cruel to those who are hurting.

Please – let’s lead with kindness. Let’s give one another the benefit of the doubt. Let’s protect our kids – and each other – with love, not control.

With sincerity and heartbreak,

Rochelle

The Woman Who Never Wanted My Son Now Wants Him as Her Carer

~ Rochelle ~ Leave a comment

She Starved Me When I Was Pregnant With Him

There were days when I was pregnant and still living under my mother’s roof that I wasn’t allowed to eat. She would watch me grow weaker. I was carrying my firstborn son, and she made sure I suffered for it.

She told me she hoped I’d rip from end to end giving birth to him. That I’d suffer. That I’d never forget the pain. She said it with hatred in her voice — a mother wishing agony upon her pregnant daughter. I can still hear it.

She Assaulted Me. Screamed at Me. Isolated Me.

She hit me with a phone. She screamed at me. Every single day.

My own brother, my own grandmother — people I loved — weren’t even allowed to speak to me. I lived under that roof, pregnant and afraid, silenced by the one person who was supposed to protect me.

The emotional abuse didn’t stop when I gave birth. It only got worse. She kicked me out with nowhere to go and a newborn baby in my arms.

She’s Never Been a Grandmother to Him

She has never cooked a meal for my son.

She has never babysat him.

She has never cared for him, never nurtured him, never been a safe space or a warm hug.

My mother has never loved him the way grandmothers are supposed to love their grandchildren.

What she has done is try to destroy my family. She caused division. She manipulated. She insisted I host separate parties just for her — without lifting a finger to help — because she couldn’t stand to be in the same room as my in-laws or our extended family. She only brought drama, never support.

And Now… She Wants Him to Be Her Carer

Today I got a phone call from the hospital.

My mother — the woman who never once cared for my son — has listed him, my teenage boy, as her full-time carer.

The child she wished pain upon.

The child she never fed, never held, never helped.

The child she ignored, excluded, and emotionally neglected.

And now that she is bedbound and can’t walk, toilet, or bathe herself, now she thinks she has the right to demand his care?

No. Just No.

She is not dying. She is expected to live many years in this state. And she wants him — a child she’s done nothing but hurt — to be the one to sacrifice his future, his freedom, and his well-being to take care of her.

It’s a level of selfishness and delusion that has left me in shock. I shouldn’t be surprised — but I am. Deeply.

She’s not a mother. She’s not a grandmother. She is a user. A destroyer. An architect of pain.

And I will not allow her to harm my son the way she harmed me.

Even At The End, She Can’t Tell The Truth

~ Rochelle ~ Leave a comment

Even in her final days, my mother chooses lies over love—and I’m left holding decades of heartbreak.

A Lifetime of Manipulation

From the moment I was old enough to recognise emotional manipulation, I saw it in my mother. She has always been a master of twisting narratives, of turning situations to suit her needs, and of denying her behavior while accusing others—especially me—of the very lies she tells. Growing up with a narcissistic parent is like walking through a minefield blindfolded. Just when you think you’re safe, something explodes.

And now, here we are. My mother is in the hospital, dying. A wound on her foot became infected—so severely that the infection entered her bone. Her body is giving out. But somehow, the manipulations continue.

⸻

Lies, Even Now

I recently received a message from her saying she had vomiting and diarrhoea. Concerned, I called the hospital. I wanted to know if there was a virus going around her ward, if it could be related to her infection, or—worst case—if it was a sign of sepsis. The nurse I spoke to was kind, but also confused.

“There’s been no vomiting. No diarrhoea,” she told me.

I thanked her and hung up, but the sting stayed. My mother lied to me. Again. About something so ridiculous, so pointless. And I still don’t understand why.

⸻

A Final Opportunity, Lost in Deceit

This should be a time for healing, for final moments filled with truth and forgiveness. But my mother—true to form—continues to weave her web of deceit, spinning stories for her medical team, for the family, and for me. She manipulates conversations, embellishes symptoms, plays the victim. And even now, facing the end, she clings to the same patterns that poisoned our relationship.

She has accused me of being the liar, the manipulator, the untrustworthy one, my entire life. But now the truth is bare. The lies were always hers. Still are.

⸻

Grieving the Mother I Never Had

I’m grieving, but not in the way people expect. I’m grieving the mother I never had. The nurturing, honest, stable presence I longed for. The kind of mother who might have used her final moments to say, “I’m sorry. I see you now.” Instead, I’m left with the weight of her fabrications, even as the machines beep beside her hospital bed.

Sadly this is not just about a woman dying. It’s about a lifetime of damage that never found a moment of repair. It’s about the pain of knowing that not even death can change some people.

⸻

Last Night, I Dreamt You K*lled Yourself

~ Rochelle ~ Leave a comment

And then you told her twice, like it was something she needed to hear.

A Seed Planted in the Dark

She said it like it meant something—

“Last night, I dreamt you k*lled yourself.”

At first, it just sounded strange. Cruel, but strange.

But then she said it again.

On two separate occasions.

She looked her straight in the eyes and repeated it,

like she wanted it to stick.

Like she wanted her to believe it was already written.

Friends Don’t Plant Seeds Like That

This isn’t just about a dream.

It’s about a 14-year-old girl, sitting in a Year 8 classroom at a public school already drowning in a reputation for cruelty.

It’s about a girl trying to stay afloat while the people who should be beside her are holding her underwater.

The one who said she was her friend

was laughing behind her back with her bullies.

She said it was “just to keep them from bashing me.”

But that lie cracked wide open, and the truth fell out.

She wasn’t protecting herself.

She was orchestrating her pain.

The Ultimate Betrayal

What kind of friend casually tells you they dreamt you ended your life?

What kind of friend tells you twice?

What kind of friend watches your self-worth unravel and helps it along?

It wasn’t a dream.

It was a dagger.

And it was meant to land.

The worst part?

She planted a seed of suicide, right there—in a classroom, in whispers, in fake sympathy wrapped in manipulation.

She knew what she was doing.

And she did it anyway.

This Is What Bullying Looks Like

Not all wounds bleed.

Some are planted in the heart like a poison.

Slow, invisible, but just as deadly.

And in some schools—especially the ones where bullying thrives in the open and nothing is done—it happens every day.

If You See It, Say It. Don’t Be Silent.

Because someone’s dream shouldn’t become another family’s nightmare.

The Day I Became a Mother and Homeless

~ Rochelle ~ Leave a comment

A Beautiful Beginning, and a Brutal Ending

Becoming a mother and becoming homeless on the same day is a reality few can fathom. One minute, I was cradling my newborn son—this perfect little bundle of warmth, love, and hope. The next, I was facing the cold reality that I had nowhere to go. No roof. No plan. No safety net for the most fragile moment of my life.

That was the day my mother kicked me out.

The Cost of Defiance

She did it the same day her first grandchild was born.

My husband and I were in our twenties. Grown, but still tethered to family expectations. Our love wasn’t the issue—permission was. And we knew we would never receive it. So we chose each other, and we chose our child, fully aware that it would come at a cost.

But we underestimated just how steep that cost would be.

A City With No Shelter

We searched tirelessly across Sydney for housing. Queue after queue, inspection after inspection, rejection after rejection. No one wanted to take a chance on us—too young, no credit history, no references. And then, in a hospital bed with my baby in my arms, my husband delivered the final blow: the Department of Housing had a ten-year waiting list.

That was the moment I truly understood fear. I’ve been held at gunpoint before, but nothing compares to the terror of not knowing how you will protect your child.

A Mother’s Love—Conditional

I’ve tried to make sense of it. Why did my mother cast me out when I needed her the most? Was it because I was pregnant out of wedlock? Because I disobeyed her wishes? I was still her daughter. I was carrying her grandson.

But all I received was shame. Disappointment. Rejection.

What I’ve never understood is this: why does a son deserve more love than a daughter?

History Repeating in Reverse

Sixteen years later, the pain remains. Especially now—watching history repeat, but in reverse.

My brother has a girlfriend. They’ve only been together a month. They’re not married. She isn’t pregnant. But my mother is happy to open her home and heart to her without hesitation. No lectures. No judgment. Just warmth and support.

Everything I needed and never received.

Mother’s Day: A Time for Silence

Mother’s Day is the hardest. The world tells us to honour our mothers with cards and gratitude. But what do you write to a woman who discarded you when you needed her most?

How do you express gratitude to someone who made your most fragile moment even more terrifying – who kicked you and your newborn baby out with nowhere to go?

I’ve considered telling her the truth. Pouring all my pain into a single letter. Telling her exactly what she’s done, how deeply she’s hurt me, how much her favoritism destroyed any hope of closeness. But I know how she would react.

She would turn it around. Call me stupid. Remind me of the money she spent on my private school education. Accuse me of being ungrateful, useless, a disappointment. She’s said it all before.

So instead, I stay silent. Or I write something generic, like people do in Christmas cards for people they barely know.

Maybe I’ll write something like: “Season’s greetings this Mother’s Day. Congratulations on birthing your son. I hope his girlfriend is everything you ever wanted in a daughter.”Maybe that’s as honest as I can be without inviting more pain.

“Best of luck with everything hopefully you don’t destroy your potential daughter-in-law in the same way that you destroyed me.”

“May you continue to move faster than your karma”  – now that’s a nice one, especially towards someone who has been nothing but cruel to their child for their entire life.

How about – “you kicked me out of home when I was most vulnerable with a newborn baby and absolutely nowhere to go – this Mother’s Day, and always, I hope you remember everything that you’ve put me through” – realistically it sounds so much better than saying something along the lines of “I hope the universe treats you as fairly as what you have treated me my entire life”… that wish although filled with sincerity would not go down very well.

The Truth I Carry

Maybe one day I’ll forgive her. Maybe I won’t.

But this is my truth:

I became a mother and lost a mother in the same breath.

And every year, on the second Sunday in May, I remember it all over again.