I blame myself for not loving my own son.
Sometimes fate presents us with questions we can never answer. Worse still, sometimes we become the question—one we don’t know how to live with. This story isn’t mine, but ever since I heard it, it hasn’t left me in peace.
My name is Eleanor. I grew up in a big family—Mum, Dad, and five daughters. I was the youngest. And for as long as I can remember, one thought gnawed at me: *Which of us does Mum love the most?*
I pestered her about it often, especially when we were alone. But Mum never singled any of us out. Her answer never changed: *I love you all the same. You’re my children, and the love I have for you is the same—a mother’s love.* Back then, it felt like a dodge. Now, looking back, I know it was the only right answer. Mum was wise. Because of her fairness, my sisters and I grew up close-knit, ready to stand by each other no matter what.
But me—I’m a mother to just one child. I can’t even imagine how a parent with several feels. Not until recently, when I spoke to a woman whose story forced me to confront something I’d never dared imagine.
Her name was Beatrice. We met when she joined our department. We hit it off quickly—shared lunches, confidences. I’ve always liked listening to others’ lives; it’s how you learn not just about them, but about the shadows in yourself.
Beatrice often spoke of her daughter—how she excelled in school, found work, helped at home. She showed me photos, beaming with pride. I listened, smiling, envying her a little—such a devoted, loving mother.
Then one day, she mentioned a gift from… her son. I blinked. *Your son? You’ve never said you had another child.* She gave an uneasy laugh. After a pause, she decided to tell me the truth.
Her son had been born first. She’d been young then, full of ambition, determined to be the perfect mother. She tried—feeding him, bathing him, caring for him—but more and more, she caught herself going through the motions. No warmth, no real connection. It was all *duty*, never *desire*.
*I can’t explain it,* she said, voice heavy. *He was a good boy. Obedient, clever, kind. But my heart stayed silent. I told myself it would come later… but it never did.*
Then, four years later, her daughter was born. And everything changed. The love she’d waited for crashed over her like a wave. She adored her—spoiled her, protected her. And all the while, she drifted further from her son. She never hit him, never shouted. But she never hugged him, either. Never kissed him. Never said *I love you*. He was there—like a stranger in her home.
The guilt only grew with time. She tried to excuse it—post-natal depression, exhaustion, not being ready. But the truth was simpler, and crueller: she just hadn’t loved him. And knowing she *could* love her daughter made it worse—because one child had her whole heart, and the other, only obligation.
*Sometimes I imagine him,* Beatrice whispered, *small, watching me kiss his sister, stroke her hair. And getting nothing. And he remembered. Always remembered. I saw it in his eyes—the same silent question I used to ask my mum: Who do you love more? And I couldn’t lie. Because he already knew.*
Now her son is grown, successful. He respects her. Helps her. But between them—coldness. Distance. The careful acting of kinship where none truly exists.
I listened, stunned. I didn’t judge. But my heart ached. *Can it really happen?* That you’re powerless to love your own child? That one soul calls to you, and the other doesn’t?
Perhaps the greatest sin a mother can commit isn’t hatred, isn’t cruelty—but simply… feeling nothing.
Since then, I look at my colleagues, my friends, my neighbours differently. Everyone has their story. And somewhere out there, there’s a woman who stays silent, who scolds herself every night for failing to give love where it was needed most.
