Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, one cannot choose ones parents. My mother raised my sister and me on her own, and I shouldnt speak poorly of her. Still, Ill set things down as they truly were.
My mother had everything: wit, looks, luckeven a steady job. What she lacked, though, was warmth. She was generous with her money and possessions, never denying us anything material. But, when it came to sympathy or encouragement, she always held back. For reasons of her own, she believed that if children were shown too much affection or praise, theyd spiral out of control. Any praise I heard about myself always seemed to come from strangers, never from her lips.
My older sister never seemed troubled by this. She was the pride of her school and occasionally, even my mother had to acknowledge her achievements. I, on the other hand, was invisible; anything I did well was always followed by, Shes clever, but lazy. I grew up feeling fundamentally flawed.
Ill never forget a day at nursery school, when I was playing with puzzles and absentmindedly stuffed a few pieces in my pocket. When Mum came to collect me, I forgot to put them back. The uproar that followed! My mother berated and struck me, publicly labelling me a thief in front of the teachers and parents.
The next morning, she hauled me into nursery, made me stand before the whole class, and announced just how ashamed she was to have a daughter who stole. She turned to the other children and said theyd be better off not befriending someone like me.
After that, I was an outcast. Whenever anything went missing, I was immediately blamed. It was sheer torture for a young child, always feeling suspect and unwanted. At least, when I moved up into primary with my classmates, I hoped things might improve. Still, I braced myself for further humiliation.
I remember another episode: Mum used to bring me to her office after school and sat me down to do my homework. Shed give me some pounds for lunch and send me off to the canteen. One day, for reasons I cant recall, I went to the stationery shop instead. I bought some notebooks without her permission, thinking nothing of it.
When Mum found out, she seized me by the hair and dragged me home. Passersby stared in shock, hands over their mouths. She hit me and shouted at me in the street. In those moments, she became almost beastlikea fury I couldnt comprehend. I couldnt even stand up; she kicked me in the legs as I tried to scramble away.
Once again, in front of my classmates, she brought up the nursery school incident, recounting the details as though she relished my humiliation. Did she find some perverse comfort in my sobs and wailing? I remember everything. Now, at fifty, those wounds still sting.
Despite it all, I lovedand still lovemy mother. But I often wonder: did she ever truly love me?
If Ive learnt anything from all this, its that kindness and encouragement shape a child far more than any punishment ever could. Ive vowed to do better by those I loveno matter what.
