I understand that my daughter was shaped by her environment. I know I failed her as a parent. I know she grew up in a toxic household. But despite all of that, I can’t help but hate her.
My ex-husband was abusive, both emotionally and physically. He was one of those charismatic types who fooled everyone, so for a long time, nobody believed what I endured. When I finally found the courage to leave, taking my two children—14 and 15 at the time—he threatened that I wouldn’t leave his house alive. We escaped to a motel, but within a week, my daughter called him behind my back. That led to the one time he lost control in public, and the police were called. After that, I filed for divorce.
During the divorce, I gave him everything—our property, savings, anything he wanted—just to ensure he would leave me alone. We had shared custody, but my daughter resented me. To her, I had “ruined her world.” She despised moving between two homes and blamed me for the upheaval.
Things escalated to the point where she started using physical force against me. The abuse stopped only when my son intervened and warned her that he would harm her if she ever touched me again. After that, she never came back. I knew her life with her father wouldn’t be easy, especially now that he no longer had me as a target. But I had no control over the situation.
From what I’ve seen on her social media, she seems fine. She idolizes her father, calling him her “favorite person,” and is actively involved in conversations about domestic violence (DV) and women’s shelters. Ironically, she shares DV stories and gets praised by her friends for her “support for women.” It feels like a cruel joke.
Last week, she reached out to me for the first time in eight years. She’s 26 now, and the last time I saw her was when she was 18. Her reason for contacting me? She wanted me to meet her father—apparently, he wants to apologize. After all these years, her concern is still only about him and his image.
I hate her for it. I hate her for everything. And I hate myself for feeling this way. Parents are supposed to love their children unconditionally, aren’t they? Even parents of criminals manage to stand by their kids. But I can’t.
Maybe this is my punishment. Maybe I understand her too well now. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and I guess I’m the rotten tree that bore her.
