I Am My Mothers Mother

My mother is a textbook misogynist.

Even though Im her daughterher only childshes hated me from the moment I took my first breath. To her, my existence wasn't a miracle; it was an intrusion. I was beaten for wearing lip gloss, beaten for putting on a sundress, and beaten most severely if I ever dared to show affection toward my father.

On the eve of my high school graduation, she did the unthinkable. She went to my school and spread a sickening lie: she told everyone I was a "homewrecker" who was seducing my own father.

She pushed me until I had nowhere left to go but over the edge of a fifteen-story ledge.

And as I fell, I knew one thing for certain: my mother was finally satisfied.

In the delivery room, the doctor beamed as she handed me over to my mother.

"Its a girl," the doctor whispered, her voice full of warmth. "Look at that skinshes going to be a beauty when she grows up."

The color drained from my mothers face, but not from exhaustion. It was pure, unadulterated rage.

She lunged forward, grabbing the young doctor by her hair and swinging her palm across the womans face. The hallway echoed with her screams.

"You bitch! You swapped him, didn't you? Where is my son? I followed every old wives' tale, took every supplementI was supposed to have a boy!"

It took a senior physician and a DNA test to finally quiet her, but the damage was done. When the results confirmed I was hers, she looked at me with eyes that dripped poison. It was only when my aunt called my father, Robert, and begged him to come to the hospital that the immediate violence stopped.

My mother never forgave my aunt for that call.

A few weeks later, once they were back in the quiet of our suburban home, my aunt came to check on me. My cries were weak, barely audible from the nursery. In the master bedroom, my father was sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully spooning warm broth into my mothers mouth.

"Robert, swear to me," she whispered, her voice trembling with a desperate, sick kind of love. "Swear Im the only woman youll ever love. You cant love her just because shes your daughter."

"I swear, Diane," he replied softly.

"You won't hold her. You won't kiss her. Shes just a guest here."

He promised. And in the years that followed, my father proved to be a man of his word. In all my memories, we never once touched. No hugs, no high-fives, no hand-holding.

But even my fathers cold distance wasn't enough to appease her.

When I was seven, I walked three miles home from school only to be met with a backhanded strike that sent me reeling. She had found a photo of me on my fathers phonea simple, blurry picture of me playing in the backyard.

"You little tramp," she hissed, shoving the phone into my face. "Who taught you to pose like that? You're already trying to steal what's mine!"

I didn't even know what she was talking about. I looked toward the hallway, hoping to see my father, hoping hed step in.

But the door stayed shut, and the beating continued. After that day, my father never took another photo of me. My mothers triumphant, territorial smile is burned into my mind.

When I was thirteen, I saved my allowance for six months to buy him a birthday gifta simple navy blue sweater. I left it on his mahogany desk in the study, thinking it was a safe gesture.

That night, the house felt like a tomb. I walked into the living room to find a pile of shredded blue wool on the floor.

"Think youre clever, don't you?" Diane sneered. "I see right through you, you little slut!"

She rained blows down on me until I was curled in a ball on the hardwood, gasping for air. The light was on in the study. My father was right there, behind the door. He never opened it.

Diane spent her afternoons at the neighborhood coffee shop or the community pool, sighing to the other mothers: "Its my cross to bear. My own daughter is a seductress. She won't leave her father alone. Its disgusting."

I became the ghost of the neighborhood. People whispered when I walked by. I learned to live in the silence.

Until the woman moved in upstairs.

Her name was Mrs. Miller. She was soft-spoken, kind, and always smelled like vanilla and rain. Whenever Diane locked me out of the house, Mrs. Miller would find me and slip me a granola bar or a juice box. She was the only light in my world.

But God doesn't let light stay in places like that for long.

One afternoon, I was waiting on the porch for Diane to finish her bridge club. Mrs. Miller came down the stairs and noticed my lips were cracked and bleeding from the dry winter air. She reached into her purse and handed me a brand-new, tinted lip balm.

"Itll help, sweetheart," she said with a sad smile.

I had never used makeup. I didn't realize it had a rosy tint. I applied it, feeling a tiny spark of joy, just as my mothers car pulled into the driveway.

The second she saw the color on my lips, her hand flew.

The blow sent me sprawling into the dirt. My vision blurred into a sea of static.

My front tooth was loose, and the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. She screamed insults so vile the neighbors came out onto their porches to watch, but no one stepped forward. To them, I was exactly what my mother said I was: a girl trying to steal her father's heart.

Mrs. Miller heard the commotion and rushed down. I tried to crawl away; I didn't want her to see me like this. I didn't want her to hear the filth Diane was spewing.

But my mother grabbed me by the hair and dragged me toward her.

"Was it you?" Diane shrieked at Mrs. Miller. "Did you give this to her? Are you helping her entice my husband? Youre both trash!"

I hung my head, burning with a shame that wasn't mine to carry. But Mrs. Miller didn't flinch. She stepped between us, her eyes brimming with a mixture of pity and steel.

"I gave it to her, Diane. Shes a child. How can you say those things about your own daughter?"

Mrs. Millers thin frame was a shield, but Diane wasn't a woman who cared about reason. My mothers eyes went cold. I felt a chill run down my spine.

Diane raised her hand again. Mrs. Miller didn't moveshe probably thought a neighbor wouldn't actually strike her. But I knew better. Id seen Dianes rage break women before. The thought of Mrs. Millers kind face being bruised because of me was more than I could bear.

Before the blow landed, I lunged forward.

It was the first time I ever fought back. I threw my arms around my mothers waist, trying to pin her arms. It only made the beating more frantic.

In the chaos, my head slammed into the rusted iron railing of the porch. Everything went white. Blood began to pour down my face.

The neighbors turned away, closing their doors one by one. Diane didn't stop. She shoved Mrs. Miller to the ground.

Through the fog in my brain, I heard the heavy click of the gate. My father was home.

I tried to scream for him, but my voice was a broken rasp. He walked past us, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He opened the front door and stepped inside. He didn't even hesitate.

Mrs. Miller begged for me. She went from demanding justice to pleading for mercy. "Ill go! Ill move out! Ill never speak to her again! Just please, stop hitting her!"

I looked up and saw tears streaming down Mrs. Millers face. Diane finally stoppedeither because shed won or because her arm was tired. She tossed me aside like a bag of refuse and followed my father into the house.

I never saw Mrs. Miller again.

Before she left, she managed to leave a small box for me hidden in the bushes. A few items of clothing, some snacks, and a book. I hid them away, treats I never dared to use, talismans of a life I wasn't allowed to have.

As the years passed, Dianes hatred matured. Every birthday I had was a countdown to her losing her grip on Robert. She began to look at me not as a daughter, but as a rival she needed to liquidate.

The only thing that kept me going was school. And Zoey.

Zoey was my best friend. She didn't know the details of my home life, but she saw the bruises. Every morning, she would pull me into a hug in the hallway.

"Its going to be okay, Nancy. Just breathe," shed say.

That one sentence, that one hugit was my oxygen.

I was a straight-A student. I worked harder than anyone else because I knew that a scholarship was my only ticket out of that hellhole. My guidance counselor, Mr. Harrison, believed in me. Hed pat my shoulder and tell me I had a brilliant future.

Senior year arrived.

Mr. Harrison pulled me aside after a mock exam. "Nancy, look at these scores. Keep this up, and youre looking at a full ride to the state university. Maybe even Columbia."

I was in the top ten of my class. I was twenty days away from freedom.

One afternoon, after a celebratory lunch with the honor society, I walked across the campus alone. I was so happy it felt like a fever dream. For the first time, I allowed myself to think about a dorm room, a locked door, and a life where no one called me a slut for existing.

"Nancy, wait up!" Mr. Harrison called out. He caught up to me, sensing my uncharacteristic glow. "Don't put too much pressure on yourself. The road is long, but you're almost there."

I saw Zoey waving at me from the parking lot. The sun was hitting the trees, and for a second, the world looked beautiful. I thought, Maybe I can be like her. Maybe I can be normal.

That night, I walked into the house. Diane was sitting in the living room, the TV off.

My heart skipped a beat. The air felt heavy, charged with a familiar electricity. I tried to bolt for my room, but she was faster. She lunged, grabbing me by the hair and slamming me to the floor.

The impact knocked the wind out of me. My backpack, heavy with textbooks, dug into my spine.

Diane kicked me twice before stalking over to the coffee table. She was trembling with a manic, jagged energy.

"The junk removal guy found your little stash," she hissed, throwing a handful of items at me. "Dresses! Lipsticks! Youve been stealing from us to buy these things, haven't you?"

They were the things Mrs. Miller had left me. The lip balm was dried up, the snacks were long expired, and the sundress smelled of mildew from being hidden under the floorboards.

"Youre just dying for him to see you in this, aren't you? You want to take him from me!"

She threw the dress at my face. I curled into a ball, clutching the moth-eaten fabric. Just a little longer, I whispered to myself. Just twenty days. Just survive twenty days.

The pain was a dull roar. I could handle the pain. Hope was so close I could taste it.

But the world had other plans.

Two weeks before graduation, the school announced a mandatory parent-teacher night. I didn't think much of it. My parents never showed up to anything. I figured Id have the night to myself.

But the next morning, Diane was gone before I woke up. She had left early, humming a tune I didn't recognize.

Anxiety gnawed at my stomach all day. When I saw her later that afternoon, sitting on the porch of a neighbor's house, laughing and drinking tea, I felt a wave of relief. Maybe she was just having a good day.

I had already lined up a summer job at a diner three towns over. The manager had promised me a spot in the staff dorms. I had it all mapped out.

I was so lost in my daydream that I didn't notice the way the other students were looking at me.

Cruel smirks. Disgusted whispers.

Zoey was standing by her locker. I walked up to her, but when I reached out, she flinched away.

"Zoey? Whats wrong?" my voice was trembling.

"My mom said..." Zoeys eyes were full of a coldness Id never seen. She couldn't even finish the sentence.

A boy from the football team finished it for her. "She said youve been sleeping with your own dad, Nancy. That you're a freak."

The hallway erupted in laughter. It was like a physical wall of sound hitting me.

"Hey, Nancy, I didn't know you were into that!"

"Is that how you got the straight As? Practicing at home?"

My face went white. I threw my books at them, but they just laughed harder, dodging easily.

"Whoa! The sluts got a temper!"

I felt the blood rushing to my head. I wanted to kill them. I wanted to die.

Mr. Harrison appeared and ushered me into his office. He didn't pat my shoulder this time. He looked at me with a profound, soul-crushing disappointment.

"Nancy... your mother came by this morning. She was... distraught. She told me everything. I know you're young, and sometimes boundaries get blurred in difficult homes, but"

The room started to spin. I finally understood why Diane had been humming. She hadn't just beaten me; she had reached out and poisoned the only world I had left.

I didn't say a word. I tucked my chin into my collar and walked out of the school.

The next few days were a living nightmare.

Zoey stopped talking to me. The girls in the cafeteria moved their trays if I sat within ten feet of them. The boys were worse. They would block my way in the halls, whispering graphic things, telling me that since I was "doing it with my old man," I might as well give them a turn.

When I went to the office to collect my graded senior thesisthe culmination of four years of workI found it in the trash can in the girls' bathroom. It was soaked in soda and covered in slurs.

I looked around the school, and I realized I didn't have a single person left. Not one.

When I got home that night, Diane was sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of wine in her hand. She gave me a slow, satisfied smile. This was her masterpiece. She had isolated me so completely that I was hers again.

The noise from the courtyard below pulled me back to the present.

I was standing on the roof of the science building. It was senior skip day, but a lot of kids were hanging out by the fountain below. I could see their bright, youthful faces looking up at me.

"Hey! Look! She's actually going to do it!" a voice yelled.

My notebooks, my carefully curated life, were all gone. I was tired. I was so incredibly tired of fighting a war I was born to lose.

I just wanted to live. Why was that so much to ask?

"Just jump already!" someone shouted. "People like you don't belong here!"

The cruelty of teenagers is a special kind of sharp. I didn't look at them. I looked at the horizon, at the life I would never have.

One boy, a kid Id helped with his chemistry homework just a month ago, climbed up onto the ledge a few feet away. "Come on, Nancy. Give us a show before you go. Or better yet, come down and play. I bet youre as good as your mom says."

He reached for my arm. I scrambled back, my heart hammering against my ribs. I hadn't planned to jumpI just wanted to get away from thembut as I looked down, I realized there was nowhere else to go.

The rumors were a snowball that had turned into an avalanche. There was no explaining this away. My mothers word was law.

"Shes the girl from the honor society, right? I heard shes been sleeping around since she was twelve."

"Her mom said it. Why would a mother lie about that?"

I stared at a girl in the crowd. She looked like Zoey. She was recording me on her phone.

I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just stepped off.

The wind was a roar in my ears. Then, a sudden, bone-shattering crack.

Everything went black.

When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't on the pavement.

I was sitting in a recliner. My hand was clutching a TV remote. The screen was flickering with static, a news report playing about a local tragedya high school girl jumping to her death.

I stood up and walked to the mirror in the hallway.

I didn't see Nancy.

I saw a face lined with seventy years of life. White hair, clouded eyes, the scent of lavender and mothballs.

I was Martha. My grandmother.

My mother, Diane, had never been close to Martha. They saw each other maybe twice a year. Martha was the only person who had ever been kind to me in a quiet, distant waya crisp twenty-dollar bill in a Christmas card, a soft pat on the head when Diane wasn't looking.

I checked the calendar on the wall. It had been exactly one day since INancyhad died.

The grief in my chest was gone, replaced by a cold, vibrating hum of rage.

I grabbed a cane and began the slow, painful walk to my old house. It was only two blocks away, but in this body, it took me forty minutes.

The front door was propped open. I heard Dianes voice coming from the hallway.

"Just take it all. The books, the clothes, everything in that back room. Just give me a flat rate for the lot."

I walked inside. A junk removal guy was bundling my life into heavy plastic bags. My honors society plaques, my favorite novels, the few clothes I ownedall being weighed like scrap metal.

"What are you doing here?" Diane asked, looking up. She didn't sound sad. She sounded annoyed.

I looked at the bag containing my books and whispered, "Where is Nancy?"

"Dead," she said flatly.