Not all mothers give birth to blessings—I'm sure of it because mine didn't. Mine gave birth to a five-pound weeping and breathing trauma. 

Ever since then, it felt so wrong to be here; to live; to breathe; to simply exist. Living felt like a privilege I did not deserve. Not when I robbed my mother of her girlhood and ran off with her dreams. Not when I enslaved my father to a lifetime of labor. Not when I sentenced my parents to rot inside the suffocating dungeons of matrimony; until there was nothing else that ran in their veins except regret. Regret that they mistook each other as "the love of their life." Regret that they had to raise a child in a home that never knew peace; in a home that could never teach one how to properly love. 

I remember the countless nights I spent in the dark, holding my breath as their arguments drilled their way into my skull. Every night, the walls would vibrate with their anger; the tension seeping into my bones. Every night, I would lay there helpless; clutching my pillow; choking on sobs; wishing that I could disappear; wishing that I could be someone else—someone less burdensome.

Ma? Pa? The hurt you caused did not stain my skin purple. Instead, it found a way through my pores and into my heart. There, it built a fort strong enough to thrive in. There, it grew with me as I age. If only you took a closer look, you would’ve seen it spilling away as tears I try to blink back. If only you took the time to listen, you would’ve heard it clawing out of my throat as my voice cracks. 

And it keeps me up at night, Ma. The hurt never really goes away, Pa. It was the ghost of guilt that haunts me for not wanting to be anywhere close to you. I didn’t want it to change me. I had to keep the hurt from morphing into something more intense; more hostile; more irreversible. And right then and there, I decided to forgive. 

Forgiveness did not come easy, you know. It was something I had to scavenge at the expense of my childhood. I had to drink two tablets every night to dissolve this disgusting grudge I harbor. So I could be the child that says “I love you” and mean it. So when I am miles away, my cries would be out of longing and not out of relief.

I know I never asked for it, but a little sorry won’t hurt, Ma and Pa. 

Maybe then, being your child would start to feel less like a curse. 

Maybe then, it would be a lot easier to forgive. 

- Valerie Rose V. Ferido
(Illustration by Alexandra Lim, Layout by Ysh Aureus/FEU Advocate)