My mother is fifty-three. She has three daughters, and I am the youngest. She was wonderful to my two older sisters, but for me, there were only fists and curses. For years, I believed I wasn't her real daughter. I stole a lock of her hair for a DNA test, but the results confirmed it: I was hers. When she beat me until I was black and blue, my grandmother would beg her to stop. But then my mother showed her a video. My grandmother fell silent, and then told my mother to kill me. When my grandfather tried to intervene, my mother showed him the same video. He, too, begged her to kill me. I don’t understand. Why does everyone want me to die? What in God's name is on that video? 1 “Ugh, still breathing? What a tough little roach.” “Why couldn’t I have just beaten you to death?” The first thing I saw when I woke up were my mother’s cold, hateful eyes. This was the twentieth time she had put me in the hospital. The reason this time? I’d spilled a little bit of my soup. It sounds absurd, but it was the truth. I stared right back at her, searching for a flicker of guilt, a hint of remorse. There was nothing. Only disgust, distance, and a profound disappointment that she hadn’t finished the job. My mother had despised me since the day I was born. Growing up, my life was a cycle of beatings and verbal abuse, while my sisters were showered with affection. She’d lovingly brew them nourishing soups, but when I was doubled over with period cramps, she’d just sneer, “Good, I hope you bleed to death.” My sisters wore beautiful dresses; I was left with faded, hand-me-down jeans. She even encouraged them to bully and belittle me. I was so convinced I wasn't her biological child that I secretly sent her hair for a DNA test. The result was a bitter pill: I was, without a doubt, her daughter. I obsessed over it. I concocted wild theories. Maybe my father was having an affair with a woman who looked just like me, and my mother was taking her anger out on her doppelgänger daughter? But after tailing my father several times, I found nothing. He was faithful. There was no reason. No explanation for why she beat me. I simply endured her senseless violence, from childhood into my teenage years. During those years, I often pleaded with my grandparents for help. At first, my grandmother was heartbroken for me. She would scold my mother fiercely. “What is wrong with you? What kind of mother tries to kill her own child?” My mother would say nothing. She would simply take out her phone and show my grandmother a video. After watching it, my grandmother’s face would turn to ice. She wouldn't just stop pleading for me; she would join in, her voice sharp with venom. “Kill her. She’s better off dead!” My grandfather was the same. He’d come to break up the “fight,” see the video, and his attitude would instantly flip. He’d beg my mother to end my life. Over the years, it was always the same story. Anyone I turned to for help, once they saw that video, wanted me dead. Even my own sisters would stand by impassively as my mother attacked me, their eyes as cold and empty as hers, as if they were all waiting for my last breath. I wracked my brain until it ached, but I could never figure it out. Why? Thank God for my father. He was the only one who protected me. But he traveled constantly for work, leaving me to face my mother’s wrath alone. Somehow, through all of it, I survived. Lying in the hospital bed, covered in fresh bruises, the memories sent a chill through me. My mother stood over me, a silent, menacing statue. I looked at her, the question bubbling up one more time. “Mom, why do you hate me so much? What did I do wrong? Please, just tell me, and I’ll change. I promise.” I meant it. I desperately wanted to know my crime. She met my tear-filled eyes and let out a short, harsh laugh. “I hit you because I feel like it! The only pity is that I didn’t kill you.” Her words were light, airy, and utterly devoid of warmth. The light in my own eyes dimmed. This time, she had truly tried to kill me. I’d only survived because I managed to call my boyfriend before I passed out. Speak of the devil. Just then, my boyfriend, Martin, burst into the room, followed by a group of police officers. The lead officer walked straight to my mother and snapped a pair of handcuffs on her wrists. “Claire Shaw, you’re under arrest for domestic abuse. You’re coming with us.” 2 Even with the police there, my mother’s expression didn’t change. Her eyes were calm, her face a placid mask. Martin looked at me—my bruised body, my arm and leg in casts—and his face contorted with rage. He turned on my mother, his voice shaking. “How could you be so cruel? Is Gwen even your daughter?” he roared. “You’re a monster! You don’t deserve to be a mother!” His hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides. I knew if my mother weren't a woman, he would have already hit her. The thought that someone, at least, loved me made the pain a little more bearable. The police officer prompted my mother for a statement, but she didn’t even grant them a glance. Seeing her silence, Martin turned to the police, his voice filled with fury. “I can be a witness. I’ve seen the bruises on my girlfriend for months. This is abuse, and it cannot be tolerated! She needs to be punished to the fullest extent of the law!” Before he could finish, my mother’s soft laughter cut him off. She slowly pulled her phone from her pocket and held it out towards him. “Come here. I want to show you something.” In that instant, a cold terror seized me. I grabbed the corner of Martin’s shirt, my voice trembling. “Don’t. Don’t go over there… Please, don’t look.” I knew. I knew that if he saw that video, he would change. My fear only made him more curious. “Gwen, it’s okay,” he said, trying to soothe me. “Don’t be afraid. I will protect you.” His words were firm, but I couldn’t let go. I didn’t dare risk it. “Martin, I’m begging you. Don’t go.” The more I pleaded, the more he needed to know. He gently pried my fingers from his shirt and walked towards my mother. “Hmph. Playing games,” he muttered. “Let’s see what kind of twisted thing could make a mother do this to her own child.” He took the phone and started the video. I watched his face, praying for a miracle. Maybe he would be different. Maybe he would still love me. I was wrong. His eyes widened as he watched. In just a few short minutes, the color drained from his face. He said nothing, just looked at my mother with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. She simply nodded at him. Then, Martin turned to me. The love and pity that had filled his eyes moments ago were gone, replaced by a chilling emptiness. He handed the phone back to my mother, then turned to the police officers and bowed deeply. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice strained. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. This was all a misunderstanding. There’s no abuse here. Thank you for your time.” The police looked from him to me, their expressions skeptical. But what could I say? I felt like I’d swallowed poison. The star witness had just recanted his testimony. No one would believe me now. “It was just a family argument that got out of hand,” Martin continued smoothly. “We can handle it ourselves.” With no evidence, the police had no choice but to remove the handcuffs and leave. When Martin faced me again, his expression was ice. And then, right there in front of me, he dropped to his knees before my mother. “Aunty,” he begged, his voice raw. “You were right to beat her. You should have just killed her.” “She’s better off dead!” Tears streamed down my face, splashing onto the back of my hand. “Martin,” I whispered, my heart shattering. “Why? Why are you abandoning me too?” He wouldn't even look at me. His voice was flat, dead. “You deserve to die.” In that moment, everything inside me turned to ash. Martin was just like all the others. He had abandoned me. I remembered the first time he’d seen my bruises. He’d sworn he would protect me for the rest of my life, even from my own mother. “You really won’t ever give up on me?” I had asked, a flicker of hope in my heart. “Of course not,” he’d replied with a warm smile. “If your family won’t love you, I’ll love you a hundred times more. I’ll make up for all the pain.” He promised he would save me from this hell. But in the end, all I got was his back as he walked away. Amid the crushing despair, the seed of a question took root and began to grow. What kind of video could possibly make everyone—everyone—turn against me and beg for my death? 3 I broke up with Martin. He agreed without a moment's hesitation. I spent the next few days recovering in the hospital. My mother and sisters were off somewhere, enjoying themselves. They never visited. But then my father came back from his business trip. He rushed straight to the hospital from the airport. He looked at my injuries, his eyes filled with pain, and gently stroked my head. “I’m so sorry, my darling Gwen,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Daddy failed to protect you. I just… I don’t know what to do with your mother.” He was so distraught that tears welled in his eyes. I didn't blame him. He was the only person in my family who was ever kind to me, the only one who had never abandoned me. When my mother would beat me, he would always step in to shield me. But she was his wife; he couldn’t exactly have her thrown in jail. All he could do was his best. He was busy, often away from home. But knowing he cared was enough to give me a reason to keep living. I had thought about running away a thousand times, but the thought of my father’s love always kept me there. Thinking of the video, I grabbed his hand. “Daddy, can you promise me something?” He smiled and nodded. “Of course, sweetheart. A hundred things.” I looked him straight in the eye. “Daddy, you have to promise me you will never, ever watch the video on Mom’s phone. Promise me you won’t leave me.” “What video?” “It doesn’t matter! Just promise me!” “Okay, okay, I promise. Daddy won’t watch it.” “And you’ll always love me?” “Of course. I’ll always love you.” He promised. I thought that as long as my father didn't see it, there would be at least one person in the world who loved me. He even offered to buy me my own apartment, to hide me from my mother so she could never hurt me again. I agreed. But the very next day, he broke his promise. When I was discharged, my father didn’t come to pick me up. I figured he was just busy. I limped my way home, and the moment I walked through the door, my mother hurled a glass bottle at me. It shattered against my still-healing arm, and a sharp cry of pain escaped my lips. She sat on the sofa, glaring at me. “Why didn’t you just die out there?” Hurt and confused, I looked to my father for help. But this time, he said nothing. Seeing this, my mother became even more frenzied. She snatched my crutch away and shoved me to the floor. “Mom, why?” I sobbed, looking up at her. “Why are you doing this? Haven’t you beaten me enough all these years? Do you really want me to die?” She spat on the floor and swung the crutch, bringing it down hard on my back. “I wish you were dead!” she screamed. “Why did you have to come back and pollute my sight?” She struck me again and again. My screams echoed through the house. And my father just sat there, reading his newspaper, not lifting a finger. Finally, I cried out his name. “Daddy! Daddy, please, save me!” I expected him to rush over and shield me like he always did. He didn't. He just said, his voice flat, “You upset your mother. Let her blow off some steam.” His words were like a thunderbolt. The last thread of hope inside me snapped. Had he seen it? Had my father seen the video? I wept as I confronted him. “Daddy, you saw it, didn’t you? You saw the video. But you promised! You promised you wouldn’t look! You said you were going to help me move out!” As I shouted the last words, I thought I saw my mother’s hand tremble. My father walked over, his face a mask of annoyance, and kicked me. He looked at me as if I were a complete stranger, all the old affection gone. “What stupid video? I think you just deserve a beating. Maybe it would be better if she just beat you to death!” He was just like the others now. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that he had seen it. There was no other explanation. Just then, my two sisters came home. They glanced at me lying on the floor, their faces blank, and went to their rooms without a word. I don’t know how long it lasted. When my mother finally grew tired, she stopped. My father put his arm around her waist and helped her to their bedroom. The beating had reopened all my old wounds. Everyone in this house was blind to my pain. And I didn’t even know what crime I had committed. I was trapped in an icy hell. Even my father had abandoned me. There was no reason to stay. 4 I packed a small bag, planning to slip out in the dead of night. As I crept past the study, I saw a sliver of light under the door. On impulse, I tiptoed closer and peered through the crack. My mother was there, watching that video on her phone. I watched with her. And what I saw… it burned itself into my memory forever. I finally understood why my mother wanted me dead.
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