Orphan.

So, what’s new?

Well—I’m finally coming to terms with the fact that my dad has consistently chosen my mom over me. I understand that she’s his wife of almost 50 years, but I’m also the child they decided to adopt in their early 40s. They didn’t have to do that.

Sad doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel. I don’t think there’s a word strong enough to explain the hole left where my heart should be.

Is this really the life my soul chose for me? Is it really a badge of honor to be broken and survive it?

I’ve become an orphan to living parents.

It’s hard to explain the level of grief and guilt that comes with that admission.

I’ve spent almost 32 years trying to placate a woman that will never be happy.

Thirty-two years blaming myself for every time she chose violence over gentleness—as if it were a choice I decided to make.

If only I had been a “better daughter,” an “easier child”—not so difficult to love.

But am I really?

I have three pets that adore me, a loving boyfriend, ancestors, and enough friends to count using both of my hands.

My mom has my dad, and anybody she’s manipulated into liking her via quilts and baked goods.

I’ve done the work to get better; my mom hasn’t.

I care about things with my whole heart; my mom doesn’t.

My mom is trapped in her own reality; I am not.

I don’t lie awake at night thinking about how terrible I am; she does.

I’ve received a handful of late-night texts written in the kind of broken English only an elderly person could manage, loosely translated to “so sorry you feel like I’m a bad Mother.”

My mom hates with the same conviction only the Devil himself could muster.

She fought against God’s intended nature to not be a mother by bypassing her barren womb and adopting an infant that had no say in the matter.

I was her greatest blessing until I became a reflection of the parts of her that were broken.

Despite everything, not only have I survived; I’ve prevailed.

And that’s something not everybody can say.