Most people didn’t know I had a mom. The truth was, I was ashamed of her. Her appearance was the source of my embarrassment—a stark reminder of something out of a horror movie.
My mom had only one eye, and her face was marred by a mass of scars. I never asked her about it, and she never volunteered an explanation.
As I prepared for my graduation, the pinnacle of my academic journey, my mom’s existence loomed like a dark cloud. When she saw me in my graduation cape, her excitement was palpable.
“Derek! Is it today? Oh, just give me time to get dressed!” she exclaimed.
“Dressed? For what?” I retorted, my tone cold.
“Why, to go to your graduation, honey!” she replied eagerly.
“You’re not going!” I snapped back. “I’ve spent my entire life hiding you. Do you think I want you on the most important day of my life, showing your ugly face?”
My mom’s solitary eye brimmed with tears. “Derek,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “How can you be so cruel?”
“Face it, Mom. You’re a freak, okay?” I screamed, my words laced with venom. “I’ve been ashamed of you all my life. I’ve hired someone to take your place. Do you understand now?”
Her heartbroken expression seared into my memory as I stormed out, leaving her alone with her pain.
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Years passed, and the weight of my callousness began to settle upon me. It wasn’t until I learned a certain truth that the magnitude of my actions came crashing down.
In a twist of fate, I stumbled upon a letter—a letter from my deceased father, addressed to me. As I read his words, the truth unfurled before me like a dark revelation.
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My mother wasn’t born disfigured. She hadn’t always been a solitary-eyed woman with scars. No, it was an accident—my accident. I was the cause of her disfigurement, a result of a fire that ravaged our home when I was just a baby.
The weight of guilt was suffocating. I had spent years harboring resentment and shame towards the woman who had endured unimaginable pain because of me.
With a heavy heart, I sought out my mother, determined to make amends for my years of cruelty. But it was too late. She had passed away, carrying the burden of my rejection until her last breath.
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At her graveside, surrounded by memories of her unwavering love, I vowed to honor her legacy. I vowed to live a life defined by compassion and acceptance, to never again allow superficial appearances to cloud my judgment.
In the end, it wasn’t my mother who was the monster—it was the ugliness that resided within me. And though I couldn’t change the past, I could strive to be a better person—a person worthy of her love and forgiveness.