I blame myself for not loving my own son.
Sometimes fate puts questions before us that have no clear answers. And sometimes it’s worse—we become the question ourselves, unsure how to carry on. This story isn’t mine, but ever since I heard it, it has haunted me.
My name is Evelyn. I grew up in a large 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 Mother love the most?*
I’d pester her with the question, especially when we were alone. But she never favoured any of us. Her answer never changed: *”I love you all the same. You’re my children. My love is equal.”* Back then, it felt like an evasion. Now, looking back, I see it was the only right way. She was wise. Because of her fairness, my sisters and I grew up close, always ready to stand by each other.
But me? I’m a mother to just one child. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have more. Until I met a woman whose story forced me to face a truth I’d never dared consider.
Her name was Beatrice. We met when she joined our team. We bonded quickly, sharing lunches and confessions. I’ve always loved listening—learning not just about others, but the shadows in myself.
Beatrice spoke often of her daughter—how clever she was, how hardworking, how helpful. She’d show me photos, glowing with pride. I’d smile, envying that warmth. What a loving mother.
Then, one day, she mentioned a gift from… her *son*. I paused. *”Son? You’ve never said you had another child.”* She laughed awkwardly, then, after a tense silence, confessed.
Her son came first. She’d been young then, ambitious, determined to be the perfect mother. She fed him, bathed him, cared for him—but caught herself going through the motions. No warmth. No bond. It was duty, not love.
*”I can’t explain it,”* she whispered. *”He was a good boy—obedient, bright, kind. But my heart never stirred. I told myself love would come… but it never did.”*
Then, four years later, her daughter was born. Everything changed. A flood of love crashed over her, fierce and immediate. She adored the girl—doted, protected, cherished. And with every embrace she gave her daughter, she pulled further from her son. No beatings, no shouting. Just… no hugs. No kisses. No *”I love you.”* He was there—like a stranger under her roof.
The guilt festered. She made excuses—depression, exhaustion, unpreparedness. But the truth was simpler, crueller: she just didn’t love him. And realising how fiercely she loved his sister only sharpened the pain. One child got her whole heart. The other got duty.
*”Sometimes,”* Beatrice murmured, *”I see him as a boy, watching me kiss his sister, stroke her hair. And I gave him nothing. He remembered. Always. I saw it in his eyes—the same question I once asked my mum: ‘Who do you love more?’ And I couldn’t lie. Because he knew the answer.”*
Now, he’s grown—successful, polite. He respects her. Helps her. But between them? A hollow space. A performance of closeness.
I listened, wordless. I didn’t judge. But my heart cracked. Can this truly happen? To simply… not love your child? For one soul to answer, and the other to stay silent?
Perhaps the greatest sin a mother can commit isn’t hatred, nor cruelty… but the absence of feeling.
Now, I watch my colleagues, friends, neighbours differently. Everyone has a story. And somewhere, maybe, there’s a woman who stays silent—punishing herself every night for failing to love the one who needed it most.
