My name is Carmen, I’m seventeen years old, and I’m from Valencia. I stayed silent for far too long, carrying everything alone, but today I need to share my story. Maybe someone will see themselves in it. Maybe someone will understand the pain that leaves no visible scars. I hope at least one mother thinks twice before betraying her daughter, like mine did.
My parents divorced when I was ten. We were never a happy family—shouting, blame, that coldness between them that I could feel even when I didn’t fully understand it. After the divorce, things only got worse. Mom and Dad competed to see who could “put up with me” better. It wasn’t about love, it was about obligation. I was passed from house to house like a burden. At Dad’s, we lived in a small space, but it was peaceful. At Mom’s, the air grew heavier every year.
The breaking point came when my mom got a new boyfriend: Javier. In his thirties, a decade younger than her. He moved into our home like he owned everything. And me? I was in the way. At first, he pretended to care—“How’s school, Carmen?”—but the mask soon fell. He criticized my presence, complained when my mom spent money on me. “Your father’s useless,” he’d say with disgust. “You should be figuring out your life on your own.”
He manipulated my mom. Took her money. Told her a teenage daughter was like a ball and chain. And she… she nodded along. She no longer noticed my tears at night, my quiet footsteps in the kitchen trying to avoid them, the hours I spent locked in the bathroom just to find a moment of silence.
The final straw was a fight late at night. Screaming so loud it shook the windows. I ran out, thinking I needed to protect her, terrified he would hit her. But everything went wrong. He looked at me with animal rage. “Stop! Don’t yell at her!” I shouted. And then I felt it—a brutal punch that threw me against the corner of the dresser. Blurred vision. My mother’s scream… then nothing.
I waited for her to kick him out. To hug me. To call a doctor. To say she loved me. I searched for her eyes, begging for help. She just whispered, “You brought this on yourself.” An hour later, she told me to pack my things and go live with Dad.
I packed in silence. My heart ripped apart. No tears. No screaming. I left knowing I no longer had a home.
Now I live with my dad. He tries, but the closeness is gone. I no longer expect calls from her, or apologies… Though deep inside, there’s still a little girl in me hoping to hear, “Forgive me, daughter.” But that day will never come. She chose a man. The one who hit her own flesh and blood.
I don’t wish her harm. I know he’ll leave her—he’ll look for someone younger, more submissive. Maybe then she’ll remember me. But I won’t be the girl who forgives. A mother’s betrayal leaves scars that never fade.
To all parents: don’t have children if you can’t put them before your personal chaos. We didn’t ask to be born. But if you bring us into this world… don’t let us down.
Mom, if you’re reading this: I survived. I rebuilt myself. I am strong. But I will never cry for you again. You are no longer my mother. Just the woman who gave birth to me.