writing

She Denied Me Food, Love, and Truth – And Still Claimed She Was a Good Mother

~ Rochelle ~ Leave a comment

There are some days etched into your memory so deeply that you feel them pulse with every breath you take. For me, it was the day of my daughter’s 10th birthday—a milestone that should have been filled with joy, love, laughter. Instead, it became the day I shattered a lifetime of silence and paid the price for seeking truth from a mother who never saw me as her daughter, only her mistake.

I thought maybe, just maybe, this would be the right moment to try again. To offer peace. To fight for understanding. After all, she was in a hospital bed, vulnerable and confronting her mortality. If there was ever a moment for redemption, surely this was it.

But I was wrong. So painfully, achingly wrong.

The Slow Build of a Lifetime of Hurt

In the weeks leading up to that day, I had gently—so gently—tried to talk to her about the differences in how she treated me and my brother. I wasn’t attacking. I wasn’t blaming. I was pleading. Trying to open a door that had always been slammed shut in my face.

My brother—the golden child. The sun she orbits. The one she can never seem to do wrong by. She loves him so much she even extends that unconditional warmth to a girlfriend she’s never even met.

And me?

I don’t remember being loved. I don’t remember being wanted. I don’t remember being enough.

I think she hated me from the moment I was born. Maybe even before that.

Today, She Couldn’t Walk—and I Couldn’t Stay Silent

Today was also the day she realized she couldn’t walk anymore. She’d been pretending to the medical staff that she could—swearing she was walking in secret like it was some twisted game. Delirious, yes. But manipulative? Even more so. She’s spent a lifetime crafting illusions and bending reality to serve her. She’s a master of deceit. And I was tired of being the student of her cruelty.

The final crack in the dam came when she proudly told me she had just given my brother $250—for groceries.

That was it.

I told her I wished I had even a fraction of that kindness. I told her I wished she had ever seen me as her daughter the way she sees him as her son. I asked her the question I’ve carried for decades:

“What’s the difference between me and him? Is it because I was born with a vagina?”

She didn’t answer. Not really. She didn’t have to.

A Starving Daughter, A Favoured Son

When I lived at home, I paid rent. And the groceries I bought for myself? Fed to her five dogs.

Yes, you read that right. I would buy food with my own money, and she would feed it to the dogs. Sometimes, my grandmother would wait until I made a meal and then demand half—only to give it to the dogs, right in front of me, as if my hunger was a joke.

I was pregnant once, starving, not allowed to leave my room because my mother was home and in a fury. I went the entire day without food, growing life inside me while starving, while they all feasted.

Meanwhile, my brother? A grown man with a full-time job. She gives him money for food. Pays for him and his girlfriend to go to the nail salon. Funds their weekends away. Offers him the luxury of love I’ve never tasted.

I Asked Her Why—and She Hung Up

I asked her why. Why she hated me. Why she couldn’t love me. What was wrong with me.

She claimed she never treated me badly. Denied everything. Even when I listed the moments of pain like beads on a rosary, she insisted she treated me “well.”

And then she said something that broke me even more than I thought possible:

“We can’t be friends if you keep asking these questions.”

As if we were ever friends.

And then—she hung up.

I Don’t Regret Speaking My Truth—Even If It Cost Me a Mother

Maybe my daughter’s birthday wasn’t the right day. Or maybe it was. Because watching her turn ten, watching her feel seen and celebrated, reminded me exactly what I never had—and what I will fight like hell to give her.

I chose truth over silence. I chose healing over pretending. I chose to stop begging for a love that was never mine to begin with.

And maybe that’s the most painful kind of freedom.

Are All Curry Mothers This Vile?

~ Rochelle ~ 1 Comment

Why is there such a vast difference when it comes to the way a daughter is treated in comparison to a son – especially in a Sri Lankan household?!

Are all curry mothers just this vile? 

Do all curry mothers just simply worship the ground that their sons walk on – all whilst treating their daughters like absolute garbage?!

I think what hurts the most is the way that my mother not only treats me as though I am second-best when it comes to my brother and myself – but the way that she now accepts and  showers love on my brother’s new girlfriend.

And it’s not just love – it’s the financial freedom that my brother and his girlfriend are so very blessed with as well.

When I was still living at home, there is no chance in hell that I would be permitted to use a cent of my mother’s money for anything that I needed – especially once I had a job.

Not food, not groceries and most certainly not clothing or anything luxurious.

Yet here I am watching on as my mother financially supports my 33 year old brother and his new girlfriend on their shopping extravaganzas – all whilst he holds down a full-time job.

It feels as though it’s a cultural thing – where my mother feels obligated to shower her son and his girlfriend with whatever they need.

Or maybe it’s just a ‘black sheep’ of the family thing – something that my brother is privy to because he was always wanted, the perfect golden child… whereas I wasn’t, more than likely, because I am female and completely unwanted.

On one hand, I am falling down a steep spiral of jealousy as I watch my mother doing this for my brother – and yet on the other hand I keep reminding myself that at least I can hold my head up high knowing that I didn’t have this luxury extended to myself or my husband.

I can’t help but question though – what is wrong with me? How could she never have cared about me in that way? I was so desperate for clarity that I even tested her just the other day to see if anything had changed… I told her that I was hungry… and asked her if she would please buy me some food… and she abused me for asking… I wish I hadn’t have tested her in that way especially when deep down inside I knew what the answer would have been… I know that in reality I am no one and nothing to her…

Realistically, I feel so stupid for even asking, but part of me just had to know if anything had changed over the years. If she was just waiting for me to extend myself and ask for help… but she wasn’t.

Unconditional love, financial freedom and unwavering support are the luxuries reserved only for my mother‘s son.

My maternal grandmother used to always say “you can’t close one eye and open the other” – this was something that she used to say when it came to treating children equally… not that she had the right to say this considering she was just as guilty of being equally as cruel.

And therein lies the answer to how this could have all unfolded – it’s a generational curse which has been handed down from mother to child from my grandmother to my mother – and I wonder how far back it goes… all whilst praying to God that I don’t do this to my own children.

As happy as I am for my brother and his girlfriend, I am also deeply, soulfully crushed as I mourn the life and love that could have been for myself – if only I had been born a boy.

I Should Have Drowned You At Birth

~ Rochelle ~ Leave a comment

“I should have drowned you at birth” a mother told her extremely young child.

The child was too young to fully understand the concept of drowning and death so she just looked up at her mother, pretending to make sense of what she was saying.

As the years grew, so too did the description of the mother’s vile sentence.

“When my friend gave me a laundry bucket as a gift when you were born, I should have drowned you in it. Nobody would have ever blamed me!” There were so many words this time that the child was somewhat amused.

She looked at her mother, picturing a baby in a bucket splashing around and it reminded her of her favourite movie at the time – “Dumbo”… she tried as hard as she could not to giggle at the thoughts in her head, but ultimately a few would escape her lips, sending her mother into an even wilder fury.

By the time the child was a teenager the sentence added far more description and accusations, but had less of a storyline.

“You’re a s**t. You will never amount to anything. I should have drowned you when I had the chance”.

The once innocent child, now teenager, understood every painful word. There was no longer any daydreaming and replacing the hurt with amusing childish thoughts. She was too old for that, yet too young to understand the depth of the situation.

In reality there is nothing any child could ever do that is so wrong to have these words imposed on them. However the child carried it with her every day of her life.

It was only once she reached adulthood and became a mother herself that she realised her worth.

Becoming a mother freed her soul and opened her eyes. Because no child is worthless, useless, and no living being deserves to constantly hear that they would be better off dead.

She still sees her mother, unfortunately, on the odd occasion as there is no escaping that, but there is a new ploy her mother enjoys to taunt her with…

The mother, now a grandmother, insists on having her grandchildren call her “Mummy”. It is written on every birthday and Christmas card. And when her grandchildren call their mother “Mummy” she corrects them saying “no, I am your Mummy… but this is something to share with you another day…

Please be kind with your words towards your children, the way you speak to them will have an influence on them for the rest of their lives.