YOU DEMOLISHED OUR LIVES! – MY MOTHER DETESTED MY EXISTENCE FOR YEARS, SO I OPTED FOR A GENETIC ANCESTRY TEST
Throughout my formative years, my mother HARBORED ANIMOSITY towards me. While my sisters received affection and nurturing, I was met with constant dismissal. My physical appearance differed from hers and my father’s — this discrepancy intensified her loathing. Consequently, at the age of fourteen, I diligently saved enough money to procure a DNA analysis kit. Several days later, descending the staircase, I observed my father clutching an envelope. “What is THIS, and why does it bear your name?” he questioned. I confessed the complete truth. Before I could even glance at it, he tore it open with force and commenced reading. His complexion lost its color, and his hands began to tremble uncontrollably. Subsequently, he ERUPTED IN FURY. It was unequivocally apparent — he was NOT my biological father. Following this revelation, he simply abandoned us. I believed my mother’s animosity could not escalate further, but alas… It only intensified. Subsequently, she declared I was ONLY PERMITTED TO CONSUME PROVISIONS I PROCURED MYSELF (necessitating me to secure employment at fourteen). Then, she initiated charging me RENT to reside in my own dwelling! “YOU DEMOLISHED OUR LIVES!” she reiterated incessantly.
Years elapsed. One day, I reached my breaking point. I demanded the whereabouts of my biological father. “He despises you just as much as I do!” she retorted. However, eventually, she relented. Finally, I was in close proximity to his residence. And so, I am striking the door, filled with anticipation, yearning to finally discover a family where I will experience AFFECTION. Then, this gentleman opened the entrance. Could THIS be my father?
Me: “Hello, I am…”
He, interrupting: “Hold on, I recognize you. What is your purpose here?”
Me: “I was hoping to locate my family, my father…”
Him: “Oh, wait. Did your mother neglect to inform you?”Me: “Hello, I am…”
He, interrupting: “Hold on, I recognize you. What is your purpose here?”
Me: “I was hoping to locate my family, my father…”
Him: “Oh, wait. Did your mother neglect to inform you?” He stepped back, opening the door wider, but his posture remained rigid, unwelcoming. “Come in then. We have a great deal to discuss.”
Hesitantly, I crossed the threshold. The interior of the house was meticulously tidy, yet devoid of warmth. He led me into a sterile living room, indicating a stiff armchair. He remained standing, towering over me, his gaze intense and scrutinizing.
“So,” he began, his voice measured and cold. “You’re here. After all this time. And your mother… she finally told you where to find me?”
“Yes,” I replied, my voice barely a whisper, intimidated by his demeanor. “She… she said you despised me too.”
A flicker of something crossed his face – not warmth, but perhaps surprise, or even a grim amusement. “Despised you? No. Despised your mother? Absolutely. But you… you are a consequence, not the cause.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Did she tell you anything else? About me? About us?”
I shook my head. “Only that you didn’t want me. That’s why she hated me.”
He sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. “Your mother… she was always dramatic. And vindictive. The truth is far more… mundane, and far more complicated than simple hate.” He finally sat down, opposite me, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “Your mother and I… we had a brief affair. A mistake. She knew I was married, she knew it was casual. Then she told me she was pregnant. She wanted me to leave my wife, start a life with her. I refused.”
His words struck me like a physical blow. “So… you didn’t want me?” I choked out, the familiar sting of rejection rising in my throat.
“It wasn’t that I didn’t ‘want’ you,” he corrected, his tone sharp. “I didn’t want to destroy my life, my family, for a fleeting indiscretion. And your mother… she was furious. She threatened to tell my wife, to ruin me. We made an agreement. I would provide for her, anonymously, financially, for your upbringing. In exchange, she would never contact me again, never tell you about me, and never involve me in your life.”
He leaned back, his gaze unwavering. “Did she ever mention any of this? Any money? Any assistance?”
I was stunned into silence. No. My mother had never mentioned a single word. The years of hardship, the poverty, the struggle… it all flashed before my eyes. The rent, the food I had to buy myself, the constant accusations of destroying their lives… it was all a lie. She had chosen to make me suffer, despite the possibility of help. Her animosity wasn’t just about my existence; it was a calculated cruelty.
“No,” I managed to say, my voice trembling with a mixture of shock and rage. “She never said anything. We were… poor. I had to work from fourteen to support myself.”
His expression hardened. “Then she lied to me too. She took the money, I ensured it was provided regularly through a third party, specifically to avoid contact. And she still made your life a misery. She used you as a weapon against me, even though I upheld my part of our agreement.”
A wave of nausea washed over me. My mother’s hatred, the defining force of my childhood, was built on a foundation of deceit. I had spent years blaming myself, believing I was inherently unlovable, when the reality was far more twisted and cynical.
“So… you knew about me?” I asked, my voice hollow.
“Yes,” he said. “I received updates, through the intermediary. Vague reports, ensuring you were alive and well. I knew you existed. But our agreement was clear. No contact.” He looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Why now? After all these years? Why did you come?”
“I… I wanted to know my father,” I whispered, the yearning I had carried for so long suddenly feeling foolish and naive in this cold, sterile room. “I wanted… family. Affection.”
He looked away, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Affection,” he repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. “That’s… not something I’m accustomed to offering. Or receiving, for that matter. My life is… structured. Ordered. Complicated.” He paused, then looked back at me, his gaze surprisingly direct. “I fulfilled my financial obligation. I upheld my agreement. I can’t offer you a family. Not in the way you seem to imagine. But… I am willing to acknowledge you. To acknowledge the truth. And to… understand what happened.”
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the street. “Your mother… she was a deeply unhappy woman. And she used you to fuel that unhappiness. I am not responsible for her choices. But… I am responsible for my own. And perhaps… perhaps I could have done things differently. Maybe I should have checked in more directly. Ensured you were actually being cared for.”
He turned back to me, his expression still guarded, but softened slightly. “I can’t undo the past. I can’t give you the childhood you deserved. And I can’t promise you affection. But I can offer you… honesty. And perhaps, if you are willing… a different kind of understanding. Not a family, perhaps. But… a connection to the truth.”
He extended his hand towards me, a hesitant, almost awkward gesture. It wasn’t the warm embrace I had dreamt of, but it was something. It was an acknowledgment. It was a starting point. And in the wreckage of my demolished life, perhaps, just perhaps, it was enough to begin rebuilding something new, something real, even if it wasn’t the fairytale family I had once yearned for. I reached out and took his hand. It was cold, but firm. And in that coldness, I sensed not rejection, but a different kind of truth, a truth that was finally, however painfully, beginning to emerge.