Mom Chose Her Students While Sacrificing Me

My mother despised me because I was the unintended consequence of a one-night stand. She poured all her love and attention into her students, treating them as if they were her own flesh and blood. One day, when her favourite pupil confessed his feelings for me, she flew into a rage. She slapped me hard across the face and called me a whore. Years later, as Alzheimer's clouded her mind, she forgot I even existed, yet still remembered every single one of her precious students. The irony was that not one of them ever came to visit her in the nursing home. They all loathed her just as much as I did.

From my earliest memories, my mother dragged me along to confront my dad, using me as a tool to try to bind him down.

"That night was a mistake. Why did you keep this child without telling me?

"Even if you had her, I'll never acknowledge her!"

Mom viciously pinched my arm. I cried out in pain.

"She's your daughter. How can you be so cruel?"

"You're the cruel one! There was never any love between us. Using a child won't make us happy. I never liked you!"

A crowd gathered, whispering and pointing.

Mom seemed oblivious, crying on the sidewalk,

Pinching me harder: "Useless thing! What good are you?"

My wails grew louder.

Dad turned and practically ran away.

Mom finally let go, stood up, and walked off.

Ignoring the pain, I hurried after her.

I don't know when Mom's love for Dad turned to hate.

For years, Mom kept me at arm's length, but I still loved her.

On her birthday, I bought her earrings with money from my part-time job.

I burst through the front door, elated.

The living room was filled with her students.

She barely glanced at me. "Go to your room. Don't interrupt their studying."

Then, gently to her students: "Let's move on to the next problem."

With tears in my eyes, I called out, "Mom! Mom!"

No response. Her students stared at me.

Mom snapped, "Stop shouting! How many times have I told you not to interrupt my lessons? I'm not your mom! Call me Miss Anderson!"

Crying, I set down the gift and ran to my room.

Later, I discovered the box in the trash, covered in chalk dust.

I retrieved it, wiping it clean.

The seal was unbroken. The card inside read "Happy Birthday Mom, I love you" and felt like a cruel joke.

I thought she had forgotten her birthday.

But on Facebook, I saw her post:

She sat among her students, wearing the same earrings I had bought for her, frosting on her nose, beaming.

The caption: "These kids are so thoughtful! They all remembered my birthday."

It wasn't that she had forgotten about her birthday or that my present was not to her taste.

She simply did not want anything from me.

We grew apart. She forgot my birthday as well.

But when I arrived home with a cake and saw the table filled with food,

I welled up, thinking she had remembered after all.

Perhaps Mom did love me.

Then her favorite student, Bradley, walked out of the living room.

Mom emerged from the kitchen with a platter of shrimp.

She looked at my cake: "How did you know we were celebrating Bradley's first place in the physics competition?"

It wasn't for my birthday.

It was for Bradley's achievements in physics and math.

Apparently, first place was worth celebrating.