No Room For Your Regret

My mother was the unwilling heroine of a dark, toxic love story, and I was the physical proof of her coercion.

Even when she and my father eventually settled into a life of quiet devotion, she could never look at me without disgust.

She hated me. She despised me.

Every time I look at your face, it brings back those dark days, she would snarl. "You owe me for this!"

"Why does a child born of hate even exist? You are a constant, sickening reminder."

"You are rotten to the core. A parasite. One day, you're going to drag this entire family down with you."

My father always told me that Mom didn't truly hate meshe was just struggling to accept me. I believed him. And so, I took every beating and every scream without a word. I even played the fool every day, making myself look ridiculous and dim-witted, just to coax a tiny smile out of her.

Until I was eleven, and they had my sister.

My sister's name was Jade. A precious, flawless stone.

Staring at her birth certificate, and then looking at my own name, Ruethe regret, the sorrowI finally woke up.

My birth was a complete, unmitigated mistake.

My mother had never loved me. She had never even considered trying.

But that was fine.

I would just have to learn how to stop loving her, too.

The nurse handed Jade's birth certificate to my mother with a warm, genuine smile. "Jade. Such a beautiful, precious name."

My mother gazed at my baby sister wrapped in the swaddling blanket, her face softening into a gentle warmth I had never once seen directed at me.

"Thank you," my mother murmured. "We thought about it for a long time. Jadelike the precious green gem."

My eyes dimmed, and I bit down on my lower lip until it stung.

If she was Jade, a precious gem... what was I?

My name was Rue.

When I was six, my teacher asked us to write an essay about the meaning behind our names. Usually, I loved writing, but that day, I was the only one who didn't hand it in.

Only after the teacher gave me a final warning did I muster up the courage to ask my mother, desperately hoping she would give me some beautiful, hidden meaning. My teacher had shown me the other kids' essays. Every single name carried their parents' hopes, their dreams, their love.

I wanted that so badly.

But she just shoved me away, her eyes flashing with irritation.

"It means regret," she snapped. "It means sorrow, a mistake. Your birth was a mistake! A sin!"

That was the first time I couldn't hold it in. I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably right in front of her.

Terrified I would anger her further, my father rushed in and carried me out of the room. He held me and comforted me until my tears finally stopped.

He said, "Your mother is just bad at naming things, Rue. Don't hate her."

I nodded.

That night, I stayed up in the dark, searching my dictionary and the internet until I found another meaning: Rue is also known as the herb of grace. It represents strength, clear vision, and healing.

It was the first time in my life I had ever lied, and I did it in my essay.

I wrote that my mother had named me Rue because she wanted me to grow up strong, wise, and filled with grace. I wrote that she wanted me to overcome any hardship.

Later, that essay was chosen as a model of excellence for the school district.

But now, looking at the name Jade on my sister's birth certificate, a quiet ache settled deep in my chest.

Some people are born as precious gems, expected and adored from their very first breath.

While I had to build a fragile, make-believe world out of lies just to feel a shred of warmth.

I couldn't keep lying to myself.

My mother wasn't bad at naming things. She just hadn't cared enough to try for me. She wouldn't spare me even a crumb of love.

Yet, I still harbored a desperate, foolish hope. I reached out, tugging gently on my parents' sleeves, and whispered, "Can I change my name?"

"I don't need a brand-new name. I can just share Jade's theme. Can I be Ruby?"

My father looked at the raw hope in my eyes, his face softening with pity. He turned to my mother, hesitating. "Maybe... maybe we should change it, Becca? Ruby matches Jade. They could grow up supporting each other, like sisters should."

My mother's perfect brow furrowed in immediate disgust. "A bastard born of hate doesn't deserve to share a name with our precious Jade."

"Besides, who wants her support? A damaged, rotten thing like her... we'll be lucky if she doesn't grow up to poison her sister."

My heart withered, and a faint, metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

I had never done anything bad in my life. But in my mother's eyes, I was always the villain. If something went missing, she accused me of stealing it. If a dress was torn, she said I ruined it. Even when the flowers on the balcony withered, she claimed my 'bad energy' killed them.

I realized then that my father was wrong. It wasn't that she didn't know how to love me. She despised me. She hated me.

Having someone you hate constantly lingering in your sight is annoying. But having the person you love despise you is a slow, agonizing death.

For everyone's sake, I filled out the application my teacher had given me for the elite boarding school across the state. It was a strict, military-style academy with the best academic reputation, but it was hours away, and students were only allowed to leave during major holidays.

When I got home that afternoon, my father waited until my mother was in the other room before slipping a few chocolate bars into my hands.

"I bought these specifically for you, sweetie. Eat something sweet, and you'll feel better."

"A name is just a label, Rue. It doesn't define who you are. Don't let it get to you."

"Your mother and I read your essay. It was beautiful. From now on, that's exactly how we'll think of your name, okay?"

My hands trembled slightly with a sudden, overwhelming wave of joy. I didn't know my mother had actually read my essay. Maybe she did care about me, deep down. Maybe she was just terrible at showing it.

The dark cloud that had hung over me all morning evaporated instantly.

I grabbed my writing journal from my desk, looking up at my father like a puppy eager for praise.

"Dad! Look at my latest essay. Don't you think it's really good?"

He took the notebook, scanning it briefly before giving me a warm pat on the head. "Very good, sweetie. You have a real gift with words."

I beamed, rummaging through my backpack. "And guess what? This one won"

Suddenly, a sharp, piercing cry echoed from the nursery.

My father stiffened. His hand slipped, and my journal clattered to the floor, face down.

"What's wrong with Jade?" he cried, panic written all over his face as he bolted down the hallway. "What happened?"

Only after checking every inch of my sister did he let out a long, ragged sigh of relief.

"She's not hungry, and her diaper is dry. Did you just miss Mommy and Daddy, sweetheart?"

My mother's voice drifted out, softer than silk. "Mommy and Daddy are right here, baby. No more tears. Look, watch Daddy make a silly pig face. Isn't he funny?"

Soon, the bright, ringing laughter of a happy family of three floated out of the nursery.

I stood in the exact same spot for an hour, frozen like a ghost. Nobody remembered I was there. I pressed my hands tightly over my ears, but the laughter still clawed its way in, sharp and agonizing.

Finally, I knelt and picked up my journal.

The tears had already smudged the ink of my essay. The words of my secret achievement died in my throat.

Dad, my essay won first place in the entire state. It was an essay about our family.

Dad, when Mom is in a good mood, do you think you could show it to her?

Using my sleeve, I wiped my face hard and locked myself in my bedroom.

I pulled out one of the chocolate bars my father had given me and took a bite, desperate for the sweetness to drown out the pain.

Within minutes, my lips began to swell, burning intensely. I looked at the wrapper. It was pineapple-flavored.

My face went pale as I checked the rest of the chocolates. Every single one of them was filled with pineapple.

He said he bought them specifically for me. So how could he forget that I am severely allergic to pineapple?

I quietly dug through my drawer, found my emergency allergy medication, and swallowed it dry. I knew better than to tell my parents.

When I was four, I had run a dangerous fever, vomiting and sweating through my sheets. When my mother finally touched my burning forehead, there was no fear or worry in her eyes. Only a deep, exhausting resentment.

"Can you go one day without causing trouble?" she had spat. "Your body is so weak because I was miserable the entire time I was pregnant with you. Having you is just a never-ending punishment."

From that day on, I learned to find my own medicine when I was sick, ensuring I never, ever became a burden to her again.

On my way back to my room, I passed the master bedroom. My parents were whispering, planning Jade's one-month celebration. Who to invite, what catering to choose, how to decorate the venue, which host to hire.

I stood in the shadow of the hallway, listening hungrily, pretending they were planning something for me. How beautiful it must feel to be loved like that.

A month passed in a blur.

At the center of the grand banquet hall stood a massive, beautifully frosted tiered cake. Next to it was a life-sized sign featuring my father, my mother, and baby Jade, with the words: Welcome to the world, our beautiful Jade!

I stared at it with aching envy. My parents had never once celebrated my birthday. Because, as my mother always said, my birth brought nothing but suffering. I didn't deserve to be celebrated.

Yet, a small, selfless part of me was glad. I was glad Jade was born at a time when our parents were happy. I was glad she would never know the coldness of being hated by her own mother.

I stared at the cake, swallowing hard, breathing in the sweet scent of vanilla and sugar, imagining what the rich, velvety cream would taste like.

A passing guest sneered at me, whispering to her friend, "Whose kid is that? So greedy and ill-mannered."

I recognized her. She was a member of my mother's yoga class. But she had no idea I existed. My mother never posted photos of me on social media; even if a sliver of my shadow appeared in the background of a photo, she would blur it out completely.

My face burned crimson. I stepped back, my voice caught in my throat, wanting to say: I'm their daughter, too.

But looking at the perfect family of three on the sign, the words died.

Giving the cake one last, lingering look, I slipped backstage to find my parents. They were taking professional portraits of Jade. One moment they dressed her in tiny angel wings; the next, they placed her in a rustic basket like a precious little nestling.

I had never had a professional photo taken. I watched them, my chest aching with a deep, childish longing. I wanted to walk over, but then I looked down at my faded, tight-fitting clothes. I was eleven now; I had already developed a fragile sense of pride and shame.

I knew my clothes were old, small, and unflattering. Usually, I tried to ignore it, but standing in this glittering hall, the shame was suffocating.

Just as I turned to slip away, my father called out to me.

"Rue! Come here, let's take a family photo."

In an instant, my world lit up. "Me? Can I really be in it?"

A family photo. With me?

My father reached out and patted my head. "Of course, sweetie. We're a family, aren't we?"

I glanced timidly at my mother. She merely scoffed and turned her head away, but she didn't say no. That was enough. I forced a bright, eager smile and stepped into the camera's frame.

I knew it! The sign outside didn't have me because they must have just forgotten, or maybe because I was at school when they designed it!

Once the flash went off, I was dizzy with excitement. I nervously wrung my fingers together and looked at my mother.

"Mom, my teacher said I got accepted into the elite academy. But... if you don't want me to go..."

The enrollment form was signed, but I hadn't turned it in yet. I was still holding on. In that moment, I knew that if my mother showed even the slightest hint of wanting me near, I would throw the form away and choose the local school.

But before I could even finish my sentence, she shoved me aside roughly. "Go or stay, why would I care? Do whatever you want. I don't give a damn."

"Now get out of here. Don't you dare ruin your sister's celebration."

I stumbled out of the room, my nose stinging with hot tears. For a fleeting second, I had actually thought she was starting to accept me.

But it was okay. At least we were a family. At least I would have this photo.

As I stood in the hallway, wondering if I could ask the photographer to print a small copy of the family photo for my desk, I heard voices from inside the dressing room.

"Delete the ones with the older girl," my father's voice said. "If my wife sees them when she's having a bad day, she'll lose her temper again."

The photographer sounded confused. "If you're just going to delete them, why did you invite her to join in the first place?"

My father let out a heavy, weary sigh.

"She's getting older. If we don't throw her a bone once in a while, she'll start acting out."

"Do you think I like looking at her? Every time I see her face, I'm reminded of my own failures, of the terrible things I did to Becca."

"But we have to manage her. If she feels completely unloved, she might develop psychological issues, and that will only trigger Becca's trauma. Giving her a little pity keeps her stable. It's for the best."

Ah.

So it was pity. It was a calculated performance, not love.

Suddenly, I thought of Mrs. Gable, my fifth-grade teacher who always looked out for me. She would always frown and ask if I was eating enough, and the next day, she would bring me into her office to share a home-cooked lunch.

I thought of the elderly couple next door. Whenever I was locked out of the house, they would take me in, run a warm bath, dress me in clean clothes, and call me their sweet girl.

Only now did I realize how utterly hollow my father's kindness had always been. He had never truly stood up for me. He watched silently as my mother tore me down, only playing the gentle savior afterward to ease his own guilt.

In that entire house, there was not a single soul who cared.

A wave of pure, physical nausea washed over me. I felt sick to my stomach.

The very next morning, I submitted my enrollment form to the boarding academy. After passing the entrance exams, I was officially admitted.

It wasn't until move-in day that my father finally realized he didn't even know which school I was attending.

"Oh," he said, looking at the address. "It's so far. You won't be able to come home on weekends."

I nodded quietly. "I'm staying in the dorms full-time. I won't be back until the summer."

My mother slammed her fork onto the table with a deafening clatter. "Do you see this? A child born of hate is inherently cold-blooded. She can't wait to abandon us."

"Ungrateful brat. Good riddance. I feel sick just looking at you."

I stood by the door, my knuckles turning white as I gripped my backpack straps. "Then you won't have to look at me ever again."

And I meant it. Aside from the mandatory school closures during the winter holidays, I never went back.

At first, the silence in my dorm room was agonizing. I would lie awake wondering if my birth really was a curse, if I truly was the bad seed my mother claimed I was. But soon, the grueling academic workload consumed my every waking hour. I had no time left to grieve them.

Slowly, a beautiful thing happened: I realized I didn't need their love anymore. And just like that, I stopped loving them back.

I didn't return for a prolonged stay until the summer after my middle school graduation.

When my mother saw me, a flicker of surpriseperhaps even a passing shadow of guiltcrossed her face.

"You've grown so tall," she remarked quietly.

"Yes," I replied, my voice completely flat. "I'm five-foot-five."

"Oh," she murmured, and the conversation died.

During that stay, I noticed her hostility toward me had dulled significantly, though she still treated me with a cold, distant indifference. I only spoke when spoken to.

Jade was growing up, too. She was sweet, and for some reason, she adored the quiet older sister she barely knew. She would drag her favorite toys to my room, offering them to me with wide, innocent eyes.

"Rue-Rue, hold me!" she would squeak.

But I rarely got to hold her for long. My mother was always hovering, watching me like a hawk, convinced I was waiting for the perfect moment to hurt her precious child.

She would snatch Jade out of my arms, glaring at me with raw suspicion. "Don't touch her!"

Clasping Jade tight, she would whisper loudly as she walked away, "She's dirty, sweetie. Touching her will make you sick."

"Don't call her your sister. She is not a part of this family."

Not a part of this family.

Years ago, those words would have shattered me. Now, they didn't even leave a scratch.

After my mother left the room, my father sighed. "Rue, your mother is just..."

"Just very protective of Jade," I finished for him, cutting him off.

Toddlers are easily distracted, and Jade's attention soon drifted to the grand piano in the living room. Recognizing her interest in music, my parents had spent a small fortune on a custom Steinway and hired the most prestigious instructors in the city.

To be honest, her playing was terrible; she had absolutely no musical talent. But my parents would sit there, listening as if she were Mozart, showering her with endless, creative praises.

They had never done that for me.

Throughout my life, I had consistently ranked at the top of my class. Whenever I brought home a perfect report card, my mother would look at it and sneer, "Don't get cocky. Someone will humiliate you next semester."

My father would offer a quick, performative smile before tossing the paper aside. "Great, great."

I pulled myself out of the memory. It didn't matter anymore. Those old wounds had turned to stone.

During my high school years, I practically erased myself from their lives. I spent short breaks at school, and during the long summer vacations, I worked long hours at local diners and bookstores, leaving before they woke and returning long after they had gone to sleep.

Sometimes, my father would secretly try to slide some cash into my pockets. I took it. My mother only allowed me fifty dollars a week, claiming that giving me any more would turn me into a delinquent.

The day after my high school graduation, I packed my bags and took a summer job at a summer camp that provided room and board. I stayed there until it was time to leave for college.

I went back to the house one last time to retrieve my old academic certificates and writing awards. I wanted to take my history with me.

As I walked up the driveway, I saw Jade playing in the yard. She looked up, her face lighting up with a brilliant smile. "Rue! You're back!"

"I'm trying to build a swing. Can you help me?"

I looked at the crooked wooden board and the dangerously loose knots she had tied around the tree branch. With a sigh, I stepped forward and began tying the rope securely to the sturdy frame.

Jade pointed upward. "Tie it higher, Rue! Higher!"

"No, that's too dangerous. This height is perfect."

She pouted. "Just a little higher, please?"

I checked my watch; it was already five in the afternoon. She would only play out here for another hour before it got dark and she had to go inside for dinner. By tomorrow, she would have moved on to some other game. I told her I had to pack my things and warned her strictly not to touch the ropes myself.

Back in my old room, I gathered my certificates. In the back of the closet, I found a cheap, painted piggy bank. I remembered it. I was four or five when my parents took me to a local carnival, and my father had won it for me. My mother had been in an unusually good mood that day, almost gentle. It was one of the very few warm memories of my childhood.

After a moment of hesitation, I wrapped it in a sweater and packed it into my suitcase. I decided I would say a formal goodbye before I left. At the very least, they should know which city I was moving to.

Just as I zipped my suitcase, a sickening, heavy thud echoed from the yard. Then came Jade's piercing, terrified scream.

My heart dropped. I bolted out of the house.

One side of the swing's rope was dangling uselessly in the air. Jade was sprawled on the grass, her face scraped and bleeding. Her nose was already swelling, and she had bitten through her lip, blood pouring down her chin.

My mother was already there, cradling Jade, her face pale with horror.

Before I could utter a single word of explanation, a vicious slap struck my cheek, the force of it throwing me hard against the dirt.

My mother's eyes were wild, bloodshot with rage. She struck me again and again. "I knew it! I knew you would try to kill her! You sick, evil monster!"

"I should have smothered you the day you were born! Why won't you just die?!"

My father stood behind her, his face dark with disappointment. "I really wanted to believe you were a good kid, Rue. But you are rotten to the core."

"It wasn't me!" I screamed, tasting blood. "She untied the ropes herself and tried to make it higher! I told her not to touch it!"

My mother let out a cold, manic laugh. "Fine! You want to play innocent? I'll give you a chance."

"Jade, tell Mommy the truth. Did you touch the ropes after Rue left?"

Jade looked at me, her eyes wide with terror and guilt. She looked back at our mother's furious face, panicked, and slowly shook her head.

My mother turned back to me, her voice dripping with venom. "What else do you have to say for yourself?"

My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I wanted to tell them to check the security camera in the yard. But I realized it was pointless. They had already written the script. I was the monster. Nothing I said would ever change their minds.

My mother handed the crying Jade to my father, then stormed into my bedroom. Within seconds, my belongings were being hurled out into the yard. My cheap piggy bank shattered against the concrete, its ceramic shards mixing with my old essays and certificates.

My mother pulled a lighter from her pocket and struck a flame, dropping it onto the pile of my childhood.

As the fire flared up, a wild, suffocating anger took hold of me for the first time in my life. I screamed at them, my voice cracking with years of unshed tears:

"If you hated me so much, why didn't you just abort me?!"

"Why do I have to carry the weight of your hatred? How am I the guilty one here?!"

"I didn't choose to be born! You two are the ones who are sick! You are disgusting!"

My mother flinched, a sudden, rare look of bewilderment crossing her face.

But the anger in me died as quickly as it had flared, leaving only a cold, hollow emptiness. I looked at them, my voice dropping to a whisper.

"This is the last time I will ever call you my parents."

"I am done."

I turned my back on them and picked up my suitcase.

"Rue!" my mother screamed after me. "What do you think you're doing? If you walk out that gate today, don't you ever think about coming back!"

I didn't look back.

"Good," I said.

And I walked out into the evening light.