Mom married my dad to get back at the man she loved, Tim Goodwin.

After five years together, Tim cheated on her and refused to return.

When she learned Tim was about to become a father, her fury boiled over.

It was then that my dad, who had waited for her all those years, pursued her once more, and in a fit of anger, she married him.

Not long after the wedding, she got pregnant.

Tim found her again, begging for forgiveness, pouring out sweet words and promises, trying to rekindle their past.

Her already shaky heart was torn apart.

She cried and demanded a divorce, wanting an abortion.

But my dad couldn’t bear the thought of losing his two babies.

He promised her that after the child was born, he’d transfer his assets to her and let her go free.

The doctor told her it was twins, and at this stage, an abortion was risky.

Plus, her chances of getting pregnant again would be slim.

If she went through with the abortion, she’d lose the chance to be a mom forever.

In the end, Mom weighed her options and gave birth to me and Blake.

Dad kept his promise and transferred his wealth, but he didn’t let her leave; he even used Tim to threaten her.

Dad just wanted her to stay a little longer, to care for us more.

But she felt he was selfish, deceiving her, and holding her back this way.

Mom hated him – and me.

She loved Blake but didn’t love me.

Because I looked like Dad, while my brother resembled her.

She said I was a constant reminder of her shame, with my features resembling my father’s, making her feel sick just looking at me.

In the end, she spent six years with Dad.

After he died in a car accident, she couldn’t wait to leave with Blake, abandoning our home and me.

To welcome Mom back home, I made a big feast.

I knew what she liked to eat.

I wanted her to enjoy it, to see a satisfied smile on her face, and maybe even get her to smile at me.

In my memories, Mom always looked cold toward me.

She walked into the kitchen with Blake, her face soft and smiling – only for him.

I told myself that after she tasted my cooking, she would smile at me too.

After Mom left, I lived with my grandma until she passed away a few years ago, leaving me to live alone.

When I was six, other kids said I was a jinx for not having parents.

But I knew I had a mom.

After she left, I would cry and throw tantrums, begging to find her.

Grandma told me Mom ran off with someone.

I wouldn’t listen; I kept demanding to see Mom.

Grandma tried to explain, giving me all sorts of reasons, but none worked on my stubbornness.

Finally, she changed her story.

She said Dad had died, and with no income, Mom left to save money for me, so I wouldn’t go hungry.

I believed her.

How could a mother not love her child?

All the other moms around loved their kids.

So I was convinced my mom loved me too.

She must have had her reasons for leaving, and I was sure she would come back.

From that day on, I finally stopped crying and throwing fits.

I stared at the big bag of potatoes in the corner, tears streaming down my face like a string of broken pearls.

I decided I’d eat half a portion less each day, so when Mom came back, she wouldn’t have to worry about running out of food for me.

And I did just that.

Now, Mom was finally back.

I served Mom a generous helping of mashed potatoes. “I cooked your favorite. Please, have as much as you’d like.”

She frowned, clearly displeased. “You can’t even call me ‘Mom’ anymore? Gavin, where are your manners?”

“M-Mom.” The word felt strange on my tongue. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d called her that, and now it felt unfamiliar.

I had stopped using that name because she seemed to dislike it.

When I was eight, I had run into Blake, who looked just like her.

Just one glance, and I recognized him immediately.

That’s how I found out about their new home.

I saw Blake being pinned down, swearing at someone.

I jumped in to help him.

I was filled with a fierce energy, and Mom who had come to find Blake saw me throwing punches.

She looked just as I remembered – nothing had changed.

The moment I saw her, my heart sparkled with hope.

But her eyes were filled with worry only for Blake as she scanned him repeatedly.

Only when she saw he was unharmed did she shift her gaze to me.

She looked at me like I was a stranger.

No, even worse than that.

There was no warmth in her eyes – only pure disgust.

I thought she might have been startled by my fierce demeanor or that she hadn’t recognized me after so long.

“Mom, it’s me, Gavin. I was helping my brother…” I was desperate to explain, not wanting her to misunderstand.

“Shut up! And don’t call me ‘Mom’! Blake is so well-behaved; he’s never been in a fight. Why would he suddenly start after you show up? And you helped him?”

I glanced at Blake, hoping he’d come to my defense.

He rubbed against Mom’s arm and obediently said, “Mom, I wasn’t fighting. It was my brother who fought. I told him not to.”

His innocent demeanor was a stark contrast to the foul-mouthed boy I’d just seen.

In that moment, I felt utterly defeated, unable to defend myself.

Mom gently patted Blake’s head, speaking softly, “Blake, I know you’ve always been good. I believe you.”

Then she turned to me, her expression shifting from warmth to disgust.

“Gavin, don’t ever call me ‘Mom’ again! I’m afraid of you being a bad influence and embarrassing me.”

My thoughts drifted back to the present, and I heard Mom’s impatient voice again.

“And why did you serve me so much potato? Are you trying to stuff me to death? Can’t you see your brother wants soup? Hurry up and serve him some!”

I obeyed, filling a bowl with soup for Blake. I wanted to serve Mom some vegetables, but Blake beat me to it.

Mom smiled at him, saying, “Blake is so considerate. You should eat too.”

I opened my mouth, but in the end, I said nothing.