waiting for my mother to say "I'm sorry"

[I've been waiting for my mother to say "I'm sorry"]

I'm a woman born in the 90s. I love children, but I know for sure that I will never have one of my own.

Many people who know me think I'm strange. I love children so much, yet I insist that I will never have one. Because only I know that I carry wounds, wounds that won't heal automatically with age.

I was born into a middle-class family. We had plenty to eat and wear; the only problem was that we had "too many daughters." My mother had an almost obsessive desire to have a son. Later, she even went through IVF at almost 50 years old and finally gave birth to my younger brother.

Before my brother was born, my sisters and I lived in fear throughout our childhood. It wasn't the kind of beatings and scolding most people imagine. We were hit with canes and clothes hangers—whatever we wanted, we took. No one was spared, not even our faces or bodies. Our bodies were covered in bleeding, bruised cane and clothes hanger marks—it was so severe that we needed to be hospitalized.

As a child, I never understood why going home was a safe haven for others, but for me it felt like walking into hell.

Everything changed slightly after my younger brother was born. My mother's temper suddenly improved; she stopped hitting us so often, and instead, she would curse: "If only you hadn't been born," "If only you had died in an accident," "I thought about selling you back then."

These words came from a mother, and I was only 12 or 13 years old at the time. Countless times I doubted whether I should even exist, whether everyone would be happier if I disappeared. But I didn't have the courage.

Later, my brother became the center of the family. Whenever he cried, I knew trouble was coming. "Why didn't you take good care of him? You're the older sister, don't you have a brain?" Every scolding felt like a reminder: you are unimportant.

Only when I grew up did I realize that I was just a child myself back then. One child taking care of another is never a given, but I didn't understand that then. I only knew I had to study hard, be obedient, and try my best not to be a burden to my parents so that my mother would love me. Later, I discovered that what I was striving for, others already had from birth. It turns out that some people don't give you what you need, not because you didn't do enough, but because they were never going to give it in the first place.

Slowly, I started getting sick. I couldn't feel joy, my emotions were often out of control, I would suddenly burst into tears, and I would inexplicably lose my temper. Every time I argued with my parents, my body would have a strong stress reaction. Finally, I chose to leave that home. That was the first time in my life I actively saved myself. Over the years, I've slowly learned to live, learned to love myself, and learned to comfort that little girl who had always been neglected.

Now, many of my friends are married with children, entering another stage of life. It's a lie to say I'm not envious. Sometimes, when I see photos of my friends' families of three, I wonder, what would it feel like to have a warm home?

But I know I won't become a mother. Because I love children so much, I'm afraid I won't be able to give them enough love. I'm even more afraid that one day I will unintentionally become like a mother, passing on the things that once hurt me.

Everyone has the right to be a parent, but not everyone has the ability to be one, and I've chosen to leave it all to myself. Even today, I'm still waiting for one sentence, a sentence I'll never hear in my entire life: "Daughter, I'm sorry."