Her screams keep echoing in my head. That’s why I often feel worthless. When your mom leaves you at 13, again, it messes you up. The first time, I was 9, the oldest of 3 on my dad’s side. I can’t tell you how many times she did it to my older half-sister; she turned 30 in December and hasn’t had a relationship with her for seven years. Mother is many things; she’s reckless, selfish, a liar, a narcissist, manipulator; you would think after five kids, she would get this whole mother thing down.
Strange, isn’t it? But it’s that fact I don’t recognize her at all as a mom. I haven’t seen her since 2018, and I turned 20 a week ago … isn’t that crazy? Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been told, “You look so much like her.” It strikes me like a knife each time.
At 5, all I wanted was her attention. Momma, can’t you hear me? I am right here. I’m not invisible, am I? Pinching myself to see if I was there. It’s not like she couldn’t hear. She had perfect hearing … that’s the point. Each time I walked to my older sister, thick tears in my eyes and a rage in hers. The only way to ever get her attention was by calling her by one name. She hated her biological name, Louisa. It was like you could see flames coming out of her head when my older sister would do this. “Don’t ever call me that,” she would say.
At 7, it was just me, Mom, and Dad. We celebrated my birthday with Chinese food and a trip to see Alice in Wonderland in 3D. I remember being scared of the Mad Hatter, especially with those glasses that made him seem so real. It was the best birthday ever… until it wasn’t. I woke up in the middle of the night in excruciating pain and got sick. Dad stayed with me in the bathroom, comforting me through the screams and tears. Mom slept through it all; she was a light sleeper. All I wanted was for her to be there. Dad never left my side, tucking me back into bed once the pain eased. But when I woke up, she had gone straight off to work.
At 9, she left for a job in Canada, calling us maybe once a week. Each evening, Dad would pick us up from Mema’s house after work, clean the house, cook or pick up dinner, check our homework, and tuck us in. It was the same routine every day. Meanwhile, she was cheating on Dad with some guy named Frank. He never complained, always wearing the most genuine smile as he looked upon us. Even when we cried for her, he found a way to make us giggle. Dad had a strong front. Nothing broke him … until she ruined him as if she threw a bomb into his heart.
At 10, I heard my dad cry for the very first time. They never fought in front of me and my younger siblings, so when we were sat on the couch being told they were getting a divorce, it came as a surprise. It didn’t make any sense. I learned later, before they ever even got married, my Mema—my mother’s mother—had cautioned my dad about my mom. One would think such a warning from her mother would raise red flags, but love has a curious way of blinding us to reason. It’s crazy how love can bring about moments of joy and fulfillment, yet at the same time, it could lead to deep pain and heartache.
At 11. ‘You’re the oldest. You have to choose.’ That phrase came into my life. I think this is how I became so indecisive—never being able to make up my mind. What if I choose wrong and it’s the worst idea I could ever make? What if it hurt people along the way? ‘I can’t choose; I love them both,’ but I didn’t have a choice. As the oldest child of divorced parents, it falls on them to make the biggest decision ever. This is how a child becomes an overthinker, how they have anxiety and panic attacks … or is that just me? She made a promise she never kept 90% of the time. And he just tried to make sure we were happy, healthy, and cared for. He worked himself to death and put so much pressure on himself.
At 13, the heaviest year “You’re the oldest, you have to choose,” became a recurring theme in my life. It’s likely the seed of my lifelong struggle with indecision was planted during this time. The fear of making the wrong choice, of accidentally causing harm to others, became a constant friend. “What if I choose badly? What if my decision brings about the worst possible outcome?” These questions haunt my thoughts every day. “I can’t choose; I love them both,” I would plead, but it didn’t matter; that choice of not choosing wasn’t mine. As the eldest child of divorced parents, the burden of making life-altering decisions often fell squarely on their shoulders. This is how a child transforms into an overthinker, overwhelmed by anxiety and huge panic attacks… or was it just me? Promises were made, but often, they were left unfulfilled by my mother. On the other side, there was a drive to ensure our happiness, health, and well-being—a task shouldered primarily by my father. He poured every ounce of himself into this responsibility, often to the point of exhaustion that he never showed.
The year my Mema passed happened around the same time the mother stopped talking to her children for the second time. It was a hard time for me; I rarely spoke to anyone. Mema’s passing and mother abandoning us marked my withdrawal into isolation following a stressful incident at school, urging a return to therapy. I shut myself off from my friends, retreating into a lonely existence. Amidst the darkness, there was one constant source of light: my dad. He became my confidant, the sole person I could open up to. Though he wasn’t thrilled about my return to therapy, his priority was always my happiness.
At 14, my dad had become the engineer of countless joyful memories. His unwavering dedication to our well-being drove him to work even harder, ensuring that laughter filled our home.
At 18, he stood by me as I pursued my passion in color guard, cheering me on every step of the way. Through his support, I rediscovered my passion for not life but feeling alive and living in the moment, submerging myself in various clubs and lighting my creativity.
At age 19, I walked across the stage adorned with four cords of achievement on graduation day. My father stood beside me, a constant presence throughout our journey. His unwavering support and encouragement pushed me forward, reminding me that I was never alone in my pursuit of success.
A girl whose mother abandoned her, once again … what a shame.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Samantha Horne is a 20-year-old sophomore at Oklahoma State University, studying elementary education and enjoys painting, drawing, and writing.
About the Author
