by Kenzy England

Created on: September 22, 2008   Last Updated: November 18, 2009

Being the eldest of four children, I always received the brunt of my mother's fury whether I was the one who actually deserved it or not. I was to always be a good example for the others and if they got into trouble, it was my fault, and I got the punishment for it. Before their divorce in the mid-70's, my dad was my protector; however, once mother left him, I was left at her mercy and without any hope.

This was my reality. It wasn't something that I could get away from, no matter how hard I wished for it. In the 1970's, children didn't have any choices. Child abuse was something that was all too common, and, from my perspective, no one really cared about what happened behind closed doors.

Three years ago, I had called her to talk. As the conversation progressed, she suddenly says to me out of the blue, "I never really loved you." She may as well have slapped me across the face, as I'm sure the pain would not have been so great. But there I sat, choked up and on the verge of tears. I wouldn't cry! I would not give her the satisfaction of hearing me sob ever again.

Having my own mother, the woman who gave birth to me forty years ago suddenly confess to me that she never loved me was quite a shock to me. I always felt something wasn't right, but regardless of our relationship, I always had a deep-down belief that she did love me in her own way.

I'm the mother of four children myself, and I cannot ever imagine myself telling any one of them that I don't love them or that I never loved them.

There is so much that I could say here, but then, much of it is very painful for me to rehash. I think this may have been the straw that broke the camels back, forever destroying whatever relationship I had with my mother.

When I was 10 years old, my mother put my little brother and me in a foster home after we had taken some money from her boyfriend, bought loads of candy and soda pop before walking to the nearby river that ran not too far behind our apartment to hang out. When we returned home, I received the beating of my life. Crying uncontrollably in my room, I could hear her on the phone. "You better come get them before I kill them both!" Before I knew what was happening, there was a knock on the door. Two child welfare workers had come to collect us, taking us almost a hundred miles away from our mother. I wasn't in the foster home for very long, a couple of months at the most, until my grandparents came for us. State welfare officials decided that I could go; however,

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