Last year, I tried to have a conversation with my mom about how she raised me with an iron fist and how that has affected me in my adulthood. We were both eating and vibing when I brought up the topic. I wanted it to be fun and less confrontational though it weighed heavy on my heart.

FOLLOW US ON WHATSAPP CHANNEL TO RECEIVE ALL STORIES IN YOUR INBOX

My mom gave me a cut under my eye. She was beating me with a belt because I’d stayed longer than expected when she sent me on an errand. When I was crying with my hand covering my eyes, thinking I’d lost my eye, she went in and came to pour water on me, saying I was disturbing her. It was an old woman living in the compound house with us who treated my wounds and asked me to be a good child.

My mom could go for a month without talking to me just because I ate with a neighbor she wasn’t talking to or I allowed myself to run an errand for a neighbor she was fighting with. When it happened like that, I wished she would rather beat me.

Sometimes she would beat me and drive me out of the house. She didn’t care where I would sleep at night or what I would eat. If a neighbor fed me, my mom would attack them. If a man gave me money, my mom would accuse him of sleeping with me. I had to flee to live with an aunt or an uncle or sometimes sleep outside our door. She enjoyed seeing me suffer in those moments.

If I hadn’t been strong willed and a little bit stubborn, I would have been pregnant at fourteen or fifteen.

So I said “Mom, that was a hard time for me. I thought I wasn’t even your child. I thought I was left with you and you were frustrated.”

I started recounting some of the moments that stuck in my brain. I spoke about them with smiles on my face, trying very hard not to make her feel bad.

She stopped eating, looked at my face and said, “So you think you’re old now so you can bring up the past and make me look like a bad person? Why don’t you talk about the bad things you were doing?” I responded, “Mom, I was only a child. Even after beating me, you could have brought me to your side but you discarded me and left me to roam free on the street.”

She washed her hands and got up. A few minutes later, she had packed her things and was leaving. She said, “You can’t talk to me anyhow because now you think your hand can reach your back. I’m the reason you are who you are today. You should be thankful rather than sitting me here talking to me like I’m your child.”

Three Months After Our Breakup, He Got Married

My mom left that day and cut me off. She has told my siblings that I’m no longer her child and I should not come close to her casket when she dies. I swear I wasn’t angry or talking to her harshly but to date, she doesn’t talk to me. I’ve gone to her with elders trying to explain. She says I should go to hell so I’m in hell now, just that this hell is more bearable than the one I experienced when I was her child.

—Lucy

This story you just read was sent to us by someone just like you. We know you have a story too. Email it to us at [email protected]. You can also drop your number and we will call you so you tell us your story.

*****