I always knew my mother hated me.

Every card given for her birthday or mother’s day is nowhere to be found, unless you search in old forgotten boxes or files only touched by dust through the ages. I walk through the house, each room hiding a gift I had furtively deliberated over. A pair of butterscotch silk lamp shades atop twisted wrought iron lamps that brighten the den, full-length eggshell satin curtains trimmed with intricate lace cascading over the living room windows, an elaborate chandelier hanging above the dining room table creates prancing rainbows across the walls and floor, while the hand carved chest that fills her bedroom with the sweet tang of cedar wood. All passed over, daily, nothing cared for. Yes, my mother hates me.