She says she did not get the kind of daughter she wanted. I’ve just poured myself a drink which she considers sacrilege.
One fine day, uncharacteristically she heaps praise on me. I’ve carried the garbage out twice because the house help did not turn up.
Someone else who moves about with a duster in hand all day is efficient and lovable. But me – banging the keyboard or speaking in sessions – am not feminine enough.
Rejection has been the predominant theme from childhood.
I don’t know where to place the shame. She is not the kind of mother I wanted.
Written for Story Challenge in 99 words