One day, when I was about nineteen, you were furious at me because the interior heater in your car had been stolen. It was of course my fault, because I had borrowed the car the day before. You told me that I hadn’t locked the car door properly afterwards.
So you didn’t speak to me for days, not until I had bought a new heater for what little money I had, and with a little help from a friend. When you came home and saw it you said, quite casually, that it had only been a colleague that had borrowed yours; it hadn’t been stolen at all, you had just forgotten about it. I would simply have to take the one I had just bought for you back to the shop, you said. No apology. No thanks. Nothing. All I got from you was a annoyed, sour look and a dismissal.
I see now that you must have been sick in your mind; you were drunk so much of the time, and you treated me badly all along. Why? I never became that fine daughter of yours. You made sure of that, and blamed me for it afterwards. I was supposed to become something great to match your grand expectations, but ended up worthless in your eyes. You always let me know that I was your lifelong burden.
Thank you so much for nothing.