My Mother Ruined My 14th Birthday With Her Cruel Words
And 25 years later, it still hurts
Nirvana blared through the speakers of my clock radio, jolting me from my sleep. I yanked the purple comforter off my head and headed toward the closet. It was the last day of eighth grade, and my best friend and I were wearing matching shirts from Rave.
I slipped on a slim-fitting tank top as an undershirt, then snapped the shimmery buttons on my tie-dye blouse over it. Orange and red swirls curved across the lightweight fabric, accenting my hazel eyes nicely.
After that, I pulled on some loose-fitting jeans and Adidas Sambas. I wanted to wear flip-flops, but it was field day at school. The last thing I needed was a sprained ankle ruining my upcoming cross country season.
I tiptoed up the mildew-scented stairs carefully, praying I didn’t wake my mother or siblings. My mother worked nights — and even when she didn’t, she was often gone until sunrise. She’d be furious if I woke her up while I was getting ready for school. It was only 6 a.m., but my father was already at his factory job.
The cheap linoleum floor squeaked beneath my feet, and I froze. I listened for a moment, making sure nobody heard. They didn’t, so I continued across the tiles and made my way toward our two-bedroom home’s only bathroom. It was my birthday, and I wanted to curl my hair.
I plugged in my mother’s curling iron and stuck it on the sink’s edge, then headed to the pantry to grab some toaster pastries. Sometimes we got Pop-Tarts, but we were eating generic goodies this week. The brand didn’t matter to me — I was just happy we had food. Our fridge was stocked with beer, soda, and cigarettes, plus a few random condiment containers and my father’s lunchmeat. Nothing for me.
There were no clean dishes, so I grabbed a paper towel for my brown sugar toaster pastries. I walked softly toward the dining room, watching as the sun poured in through the curtains. Our glass table — a gift from my grandma — sparkled in the morning light, sending rainbow prisms across an envelope with my name.
I was worried my parents would forget my birthday, but the envelope meant someone didn’t. The envelope’s gold flap was coated with an elegant wax seal, so I assumed a card was tucked inside. Instead, a folded sheet of stationery fell onto the glass tabletop. I opened the letter and recognized my mother’s beautiful cursive immediately.
This was unexpected.
My mother wasn’t the letter-writing type, but maybe she was excited about my 14th birthday. It wasn’t a birthday society paid much attention to, like a sweet 16 or an over-the-hill celebration, but my mother wasn’t American. Things were different in my home.
However, I couldn’t blame her cultural background for everything. Over the years, my mother remained selfish and cold despite my best efforts to make her happy. I was reminded of this as I read the cruel words in her handwritten note.
You don’t deserve a birthday. You are lazy. You are a disappointment as a daughter. You will never find a husband. Nobody will ever love you.
My vision blurred as tears filled my eyes, threatening to spill down my cheeks. I choked back sobs as I continued reading my mother’s hateful sentences about how I was a failure who ruined everything.
I was the daughter my mother never wanted, but I had no idea what I had done wrong. The letter didn’t say. It was just a collection of insults carefully composed in my mother’s perfect penmanship.
I crumpled up the letter, clenching it tightly in my fist as I tried not to vomit in the dining room. I couldn’t believe my crazy mother had left this nonsense for me today.
The content of the letter didn’t surprise me, but its timing did. I expected criticism from my mother, but not on my birthday. My birthday was supposed to be special, a day where I was shielded from the usual hatred in my home. Foolishly, I believed abusers could behave on holidays.
But they don’t. The date on the calendar changes, not their personality traits. I vowed to never get excited about another birthday as I read my mother’s note over and over until I had her insults memorized.
You’re a failure. Nobody loves you. Nobody will ever love you. You’re a disappointment.
I stumbled to the bathroom and yanked the curling iron through my hair, missing several sections. It didn’t matter. I don’t know why I thought I’d look pretty on my birthday. Dark bags accented my eyes, which were bloodshot from crying for the last 30 minutes.
I was ugly and sad. This wasn’t how I wanted my birthday to be.
Anger replaced sadness as I brushed my teeth, daydreaming about barging into my mother’s bedroom.
“You’re a fucking bitch! You’re a horrible mother. Fuckkkkkkk youuuuuu,” the Missy in my head screamed. In my head, I kicked down my mother’s bedroom door and punched holes in the wall, screaming until her morning was just as bad as mine.
I’d never really behave like this, of course. Not because I was worried about getting in trouble, but because she was my mother. Even when I was angry, I just wanted her to love me. I’d repeat this pattern over the years, but with various significant others instead of her.
Not all of my relationships were bad, though. It was a well-meaning boyfriend who finally convinced me to throw away my mother’s letter 10 years later. Even then, her harsh words snuck back into my thoughts sometimes, polluting my brain with depression and anxiety. It’s hard to forget that you have a mother who despises you, even when estrangement provides some protection.
I didn’t keep the letter as a reminder of my mother’s hatred toward me, though. I kept it because there were no nice letters to keep. This seemed like a logical decision until my boyfriend questioned it.
“Why do you still have that crazy note from your mom?” he asked, gesturing toward my box of mementos. The birthday letter was safely tucked inside, nestled among corsages from school dances and ultrasound pics from my teen pregnancy.
“Because she’s my mom. I don’t have anything else to remember her by.” I hadn’t spoken to my mother in years and barely remembered what she looked like, though her disapproval still haunted my thoughts.
“Your mother doesn’t give a shit about you. Throw away the letter. You’re just hurting yourself more.”
He was right, but I was irritated. We argued for hours before I finally set my mother’s note on fire. My boyfriend knew I’d dig the letter out of the recycle bin if I didn’t destroy it completely.
“Delete the emails too,” my boyfriend demanded. I never responded to my mother’s messages, but she sent lengthy rants every few years about how I was a horrible mom who would never keep a man. I had a panic attack whenever I opened one of them, especially the ones about how God hated me and karma was coming.
It’s hard when the person who should love you unconditionally doesn’t.
Reading my mother’s emails made me physically and emotionally drained, but I couldn’t bring myself to ignore them. If I deleted her messages, I would have nothing left. It took me years to erase all her emails, but I still have a Google Doc filled with screenshots of them.
Other people have crocheted blankets or necklaces from their moms. I have angry emails — and now, after not hearing from her for years, silence. When she speaks with family members, my mother blames me for the distance between us.
“I’ve never even met some of my grandchildren,” she complains, playing the victim as usual. She fails to mention that I’ve reached out several times over the years and attempted to reconnect. She doesn’t tell people my kids ran into her at Walmart a couple of years ago and she screamed curse words at us as she ran away.
It’s fine. I’m okay with being the bad guy in her story.
I want a mom, but not one who treats me the way she does. Now that I’m a mom myself, I understand the importance of protecting my kids the way she never protected me. I’m not a perfect mom, but I love my kids unconditionally. I do whatever I can to show them that.
It’s weird being a motherless mother, though. My mother isn’t dead, but I’m dead to her. I know this because she typed those exact words in an email once.
I think about this as I fall into a restless sleep, one that is disrupted by memories from the past. I’ll be 40 when I wake up, and it seems everyone in dreamland is out to ruin my birthday. My nightmares are filled with people who’ve hurt me throughout my life — frenemies, family, and former lovers.
My ex is angrily ignoring me because his cat approached me first instead of him when I wake up to a real meow. Cloudy, my calico kitty, has his face wedged in the tiny gap between my door and the bedroom floor.
“Hold on,” I mumble, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “I’ll feed you in a minute.”
Cloudy continues meowing loudly. Like my mother, he doesn’t care that today is my birthday. He’s a cat, though, so I’ll let it slide.
I can’t fall back asleep after feeding Cloudy and the rest of my furry family members, so I scroll through Facebook as the sun slowly illuminates the sky. There are no messages from my mother this year, but others have remembered my special day. I tear up because my timeline is filled with heartfelt messages from my favorite people.
Happy birthday, one friend says. I hope next year is the best one ever.
I smile as I reply that I hope it is too. I’m not going to let my mother ruin another birthday.
Thanks for reading! This piece is part of The Memoirist’s July writing contest. If you enjoy personal essays about parents, I encourage you to check out this great piece from Cliff Hightower below. It’s beautifully written.
