A mother is supposed to protect her children, isn’t she? A mother is supposed to fight for them, to put their happiness above her own, to give everything just to see them smile. That’s what I always believed. That’s what I was raised to think. But my mother—my own flesh and blood—she gave up on me. She let me down in ways I never imagined a mother could. She didn’t fight for me. She didn’t protect me. Instead, she made choices that destroyed me, that left me empty, broken, and alone.
I know it’s wrong to speak ill of one’s mother. People say no matter what a mother does, she still deserves respect. Maybe that’s true. Maybe I shouldn’t blame her. But the pain she caused me is something I can never forget. I wish things had been different. I wish she had loved me enough to make a different choice. But she didn’t. And now, here I am, living with the consequences of her decision.
Before I tell you my story, let me introduce myself. My name is Michael. Michael Anderson. I was born into a home that, at one point, was filled with love. My father was my hero. He was an artist, a dreamer, and a man who carried a passion for life in his heart. I adored him. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up.
But my father left when I was five years old. Just walked out the door and never looked back. My sisters, Tessa and Emma, were barely old enough to understand. Tessa was only three, and Emma had just turned one. They were too young to remember the night everything changed. But I do. I remember it so clearly, like a scene from a movie I can’t erase from my mind.
That night, I found my father in his room, packing his things. I stood there for what felt like forever, watching him, my small hands gripping the doorframe. He must have felt my presence because he turned around and smiled. That same warm, familiar smile I loved so much. He knelt and opened his arms, and without hesitation, I ran into them. I hugged him tightly, never suspecting that this would be the last time I’d feel his embrace.
“Where are you going, Daddy?” I asked, my voice filled with the innocent curiosity of a child.
He smiled again, a soft, almost sad smile. “I’m traveling for a little while, buddy. Just for a few days.”
I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? He had always traveled for inspiration. His paintings were his life, and he loved capturing the beauty of the world in his art. He told me stories of the places he had been, the people he had met, and the wonders he had seen. I thought this was just another one of his trips.
But he never came back.
At first, I waited. Every day, I would sit by the window, hoping to see his car pull up. Every night, I’d listen for the sound of the front door opening. But days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. My father was gone. Just like that.
My mother, Fina, had always been a housewife. She devoted herself to raising us, taking care of our home while my father worked to provide for us. But when he left, everything changed. His income was gone. The bills piled up. Our once comfortable home became too expensive to maintain. We had to move—downgrading from a beautiful house to a cramped two-bedroom apartment in a rough neighborhood. It was the only place my mother could afford.
The new neighborhood was no place for children. Crime was high, the streets were dangerous, and the people around us carried heavy burdens of their own. But amidst the struggle, there were kind souls—neighbors who kept an eye on us when my mother was away.
Desperate to provide for us, my mother took whatever work she could find. She became a maid, moving from house to house, cleaning, washing, and cooking for people who barely acknowledged her existence. She worked long hours for little pay, and I saw the toll it took on her. The once vibrant woman who used to sing as she cooked, who used to brush my hair and tell me bedtime stories, was fading.
She stopped smiling. She stopped taking care of herself.
She was exhausted all the time, her face always shadowed with fatigue. The sparkle in her eyes disappeared, replaced by a dull emptiness. Her beauty, once so radiant, became worn down by stress and sorrow. And I hated it. I hated seeing my mother like that. I wanted to help her, to make things easier for her.
I was just a child, but I knew I had to step up.
Since I was no longer in school—we couldn’t afford my fees—I devoted myself to taking care of my sisters. Every morning, I would clean the apartment, wake Tessa and Emma, and help them bathe. I taught myself to cook by watching my mother in the past, and soon, I was preparing meals for my sisters every day. I cleaned, I cooked, I washed clothes, and I took care of them while my mother worked late into the night.
Even after my sisters went to bed, I would stay up, waiting for my mother to come home. When she did, I would prepare her bath and sometimes even serve her food. She hated that I did this—told me I was too young to be carrying such responsibilities. But she never stopped me. And I could see it in her eyes—she was grateful.
At just five years old, I had become both a mother and a father to my sisters.
Because of them, I never made friends. While other boys my age were outside playing, I was at home, making sure my sisters were safe. The boys in the neighborhood didn’t understand me. They thought I was strange, too serious for my age. But I didn’t care. No friends meant no distractions. No friends meant I could focus on what mattered—protecting my family.
But no matter how much I did, no matter how hard I tried, some things were beyond my control.
When Emma fell seriously ill, my world crumbled.
She was so small, so fragile, lying in bed with a fever that wouldn’t break. I did everything I could to make her comfortable, but nothing worked. She grew weaker, and I was terrified. I had always been able to take care of them before, but this—I couldn’t fix this.
I begged my mother to take her to a doctor, but money was tight. Every penny went to food, rent, and the basic necessities. Medical bills were a luxury we couldn’t afford.
And that’s when my mother made the decision that shattered my world.
I didn’t know what she was planning at first. She came home one night, quiet and distant, and the next morning, she told me she had arranged something for me. Something that would help our family.
I didn’t understand. I thought she had found a new job. I thought maybe things were finally going to get better.
But I was wrong.
She gave me away.
She handed me over to someone else—someone who promised to give me a better life. She didn’t fight for me. She didn’t protect me. She let me go like I was nothing more than a burden she needed to get rid of.
I screamed. I begged. I cried. But she wouldn’t change her mind.
At that moment, I realized the truth.
A mother is supposed to protect her children. A mother is supposed to fight for them. A mother is supposed to love them unconditionally.
But my mother didn’t.
And that was the day my life truly ended.
