Finally, I am an orphan.

Is that supposed to feel like a relief? Is it something to mourn? Is it good? Is it bad?

The truth is, I don’t know.

All I feel is numbness.

For years, she had been a painful reminder of some of the darkest chapters of my life. And yes, if I am honest, I carried resentment. Perhaps even hatred at times. She may have given birth to me, but she also shattered the innocence of my childhood.

People often talk about childhood as if it is meant to be filled with warm memories—loving parents, bedtime stories, comforting hugs, scraped knees kissed better, and a home that feels safe.

I had none of that.

My childhood was built on fear.

Fear of saying the wrong thing.

Fear of being noticed.

Fear of becoming the target of someone’s anger.

Home was never a sanctuary. It was a battlefield where every day felt unpredictable. A place where one wrong word, one wrong look, one badly timed interruption could lead to punishment.

I learned very young to walk on eggshells.

There were pinches that left bruises, slaps that left my ears ringing, and beatings so severe that cane marks stayed on my skin for days. Sometimes I was tied up and beaten like a stray animal. My body carried blue, black, and red reminders of her rage.

The woman who should have protected me was often the one I needed protection from.

She inherited a comfortable life from my grandmother, but gambling consumed it all. My after-school hours were not spent doing homework at a kitchen table or playing with friends. Instead, they were spent sitting quietly in corners of gambling dens.

I learned to be invisible.

I learned to stay silent.

I learned that children who made noise paid for it later.

Even then, silence was never enough.

If she lost her games, I became the reason. I was accused of distracting her, of bringing bad luck, of causing her defeat. And once again, I paid the price.

Yet, like many abusive relationships, it was never entirely darkness.

There were moments when she was in a good mood. Moments when she won. Moments when she brought home a toy I wanted or bought me a new book.

Those small acts of kindness became confusing islands in a sea of cruelty. They made me question my own memories. They made me wonder if maybe things weren’t really that bad.

But they were.

The men she brought into our lives quickly noticed what kind of child I was—a frightened child desperate for approval, affection, and safety.

Some offered “protection.”

Others offered pocket money.

In return, they took things no child should ever have to give.

I was sexually abused.

I was raped.

I was manipulated into believing that enduring their abuse was somehow safer than facing hers.

They knew exactly what they were doing. They knew I was vulnerable. They knew I had nowhere to turn.

And they made sure I stayed quiet.

My cries from the beatings did not go unnoticed by the outside world. Neighbours heard them. Welfare officers were called.

Looking back, I am grateful someone cared enough to try.

But I was a child.

A terrified child.

I had been warned that if I told the truth, I would be taken away to somewhere worse. Somewhere even more frightening. Somewhere filled with strangers.

As terrible as she was, she was still my mother.

And when you are a child, the fear of losing the only parent you have can be stronger than the fear of staying.

So I lied.

I said everything was fine.

I protected the people who were hurting me.

Eventually, the welfare visits stopped. Whether they gave up or we moved away, I cannot remember.

What I do remember is feeling abandoned.

By the time I reached secondary school, the weight of everything had become unbearable.

Depression settled into my life.

I contemplated ending it more times than I can count.

I swallowed handfuls of medication.

I tried to strangle myself until I lost consciousness.

When that didn’t work, I turned my pain inward.

I bit myself.

I scratched my arms and legs until they bled.

I slammed my head against walls.

Not because I wanted attention.

But because physical pain felt easier to understand than emotional pain.

No one noticed.

Or perhaps no one wanted to.

Life simply carried on.

Eventually, I finished school and escaped.

The first opportunity I got, I found work far away and moved out.

There were arguments. Screaming. Manipulation. Guilt.

But I was determined.

I couldn’t survive there any longer.

Not if I wanted to live.

Later, I married the first man who showed genuine interest in me. Perhaps I mistook escape for love. Perhaps I was simply desperate to belong somewhere.

He was Muslim, and that created another storm of conflict. More arguments. More threats. More emotional warfare.

But eventually, I left.

For the first time, I was free.

Life with my new family felt almost unreal.

My mother-in-law was one of the kindest women I had ever met.

Compared to the woman who gave birth to me, she felt like an angel.

Yet freedom has a way of awakening dreams.

I wanted more from life than what I had known. More than survival. More than routine. More than simply existing.

Eventually, that marriage ended too.

I moved to the capital city and started over.

Those years were difficult but transformative.

I worked in a theme park. The work was exhausting, but it was exciting. There were days when money was so tight that dinner consisted of sharing a loaf of bread with friends.

But those struggles felt different.

They were my struggles.

Not burdens imposed on me by someone else’s cruelty.

Friends encouraged me to reconnect with my mother.

To forgive.

To let go.

So I tried.

I picked up the phone.

I reopened the door.

But some people never change.

Over the years, every conversation became another exercise in guilt.

I was a bad daughter.

I never gave enough money.

I never did enough for her.

Other people’s children were more devoted.

Other people’s children funded their parents’ travels and gambling habits.

Other people’s children respected their parents regardless of how they had been raised.

Not once did she call simply to ask if I was okay.

Not once did she genuinely ask how I was coping.

Not once did she ask whether I had eaten, whether I was struggling, whether I was happy.

Even after I became a mother myself, she rarely asked about her grandchildren with genuine interest.

Instead, she accused me of turning them against her.

Every conversation left me emotionally exhausted.

Sometimes I would get off the phone feeling so overwhelmed that I could barely focus on driving. There were moments I nearly caused accidents because my mind was spinning with guilt, anger, and anxiety.

Eventually, after months of reflection, I made a choice.

The hardest choice.

The healthiest choice.

I cut her off.

I blocked her.

And for the first time in my life, I found peace.

Maybe that made me a bad daughter.

Or maybe I simply became the daughter she had always insisted I was.

Either way, self-preservation finally became more important than obligation.

I chose myself.

I chose my children.

I chose survival.

And slowly, life became lighter.

The depression eased.

The anxiety became manageable.

The suicidal thoughts faded.

I focused on building a life instead of merely enduring one.

And now, here we are.

She is gone.

Truly gone.

And yet I don’t feel what people expect me to feel.

I don’t feel relief.

I don’t feel happiness.

I don’t feel overwhelming grief.

I simply feel numb.

Perhaps because, in many ways, I lost her years ago.

Perhaps because the mother I needed never truly existed.

My eldest daughter has been handling much of the funeral arrangements. She is being responsible, compassionate, and kind.

I contributed what little I could, along with help from generous friends.

That is all I have left to give.

And despite everything—despite the abuse, the trauma, the scars, and the years of pain—I still find myself wishing her peace.

Not because she earned it.

Not because she deserved it.

But because carrying hatred forever is exhausting.

So wherever she is now, I hope she has finally found the peace she never found in life.

And if there is another life after this one, if souls are given another chance, then I hope she returns as a kinder woman.

A gentler mother.

A better human being than the one I knew.

As for me, I will continue doing what I have spent my entire life learning to do.

Heal.

Live.

And finally, be free.