the day i realized my mom would never choose me
This morning, my mom asked me to go to the store with her. On the way home, we stopped by a small clothing shop. She saw a set of comfy pajamas—two for $28—and asked me to try them on. They fit, I liked them, and she said she’d come back later to buy them because we had to get home to cook. I thought that meant she had decided to get them.
Later that day, she opened my closet and said, “You have too many clothes already. We don’t need to buy more.” I reminded her we already picked them out. She said, “Well, $28 is a lot of money for sleepwear.”
I didn’t argue. I just went to my room and cried. It’s 2AM now and I still can’t sleep.
I live in the smallest, darkest room in the house. My closet is half the size of anyone else’s. I have exactly two sets of pajamas for fall—one I’ve had since middle school, and one my brother didn’t want anymore. When I move my bed, the closet door can’t open. Every time my desk gets messy, my mom scolds me for being disorganized. But most of my storage space is filled with her old coats and extra blankets. Where else am I supposed to put things?
This kind of thing happens a lot.
She often takes me to stores to “look” at clothes, lets me try them on, then backs out. One time I finally asked why she wouldn’t buy me a jacket, she said, “You wear a school uniform every day. What’s the point?”
But she buys my brother clothes all the time. She’ll spend over $300 in one trip for him. Her closet is filled with outfits that cost more than those pajamas—just for herself. But $28 for me is too much.
I’ve never gotten allowance money. In middle school I once asked for $1.50 to buy soy milk. She asked me three times why I needed it, then refused. I went to my bed and cried so loudly my brother yelled at me to shut up and tossed me a $5 bill.
Now that I’m in high school, she gives me $35 a week for lunch. One weekend, I wanted to go out for BBQ with friends. She said to use my own money first. I did. When I asked for more, she called me a pig and said I eat too fast. But when she sees a picture of my brother eating out with friends, she’ll Venmo him $60 “just in case.”
For his birthday, she throws parties, makes a full dinner spread, orders a huge cake. For mine? One tiny slice. No dinner. One year, I cried so hard she hit me with a wooden spoon. My dad offered to order KFC, but she said no. I didn’t even eat that slice.
When I was in elementary school, I passed by a food cart that sold corn dogs for six years straight. I begged her to let me try one. She only said yes once—because my brother wanted one too. That was the rule.
In 7th grade, I went to a week-long school camp. When I came home, I saw a pizza box in the trash. My mom said my brother’s friend bought it. But I checked her messages and saw she had ordered it. I screamed and cried until she finally bought me a personal pizza out of guilt. God knows how many times they’ve eaten without me.
She always says I’m jealous and petty. But if I don’t speak up, I don’t get anything at all.
And when I tell her how I feel, she just says, “Then go find another mom.”
If I could, I would. I’d rather be a chicken or a stray dog than be her daughter.
She’s asleep now, and I’m still crying. I know she doesn’t love me, and I don’t even ask her to. I just want to be treated fairly. But in this house, my dad’s absent, my mom’s cold, and my grandparents don’t care. No one loves me.
She always says my grandparents were sexist and treated girls like garbage.
But she became exactly like them.
Mom, when you see me crying—do you ever remember being a girl too, crying alone in the middle of the night because nobody loved you?
