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My Life


I never thought I would say this about the person who brought me into this world, but I hate my mom. Hate is a strong word. It is also a nasty one. These four little letters can be defined as intense hostility usually deriving from anger, and can have the grandest impact. I am not talking about the connotation that most teenagers use to describe their feelings towards their parents when talking about early curfews or not having the flashy car to drive for the night. This is the type of pure hatred that derives from having an ignorant, self-centered narcissist as a mother.

Ever since I could remember, my mom has always been the source of controversy in my household. Arguments that sounded more like wild animals clamoring, physical fights that literally and figuratively shook our home, and estranged relationships between family members all arose from my mother. Sometimes, I felt like it was her goal to make our lives as miserable as possible. My mom, stereotypically like most other Asian parents, demanded the very best in excellence from me in one particular thing, school. It seemed like that was all she really cared about. Throughout high school, I was never asked “How was your day, son?” which made me envious to think that I was being cheated out of a loving, caring parent. Instead, I was sharply asked questions like “When is your next test?” or the somewhat rhetorical “What grade did you get on your final?” because if I did not say the one letter she was expecting, I might as well have not said anything at all.

One day I came home to find my mom standing by the front door with a laptop in her hands, displaying a failing grade to my recent AP Chemistry test. I was immediately bombarded with screams of disappointment, anger, and ferocity. I responded with diplomatic and calm remarks, which did nothing to mitigate the issue, but only added more fuel to the fire. Words soon became obsolete, and the fight escalated with a physical presence. She hit me, right across my face. I snapped and shoved my mother and watched as she fell to the ground. Horrified at what I had done, I stormed out of the house with tears rushing down my face.

I asked myself the same question over and over that day. “Why me? Why was I the one to have to suffer from having my mom as my mom?” Maybe it was just a plan someone had set for me so I could overcome it. Maybe it was a message to me that I was doing something wrong. Maybe it was to show me exactly how not to be a parent. With thoughts racing through my mind, I cautiously entered my house. I was greeted by a foreign message from my mom, an apology. This was the first time that I have ever heard her admit she was wrong. Stunned, I embraced her as she softly whispered; “I just want the best for you.” Tears fell down both our cheeks like waterfalls as I cherished this precious moment, one that I have been waiting for my entire life.

Hate is an impactful word. Those four letters can symbolize anger, hostility, and anguish. Four little letters. As I recall the hug from my mother, a new four letter word comes to mind. Love. I love my mom.




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