Work Text:
I don’t care.
•••
Some women weren’t meant to be mothers. This woman was one of those women. She was better of single or dead, not married with a daughter she never wanted in the first place.
The night before was nice, just sex and sex and sex. The next morning, when she found out she was pregnant, she and her then-boyfriend decided to keep the baby instead of aborting it. They would get married and try to be good parents and give the child a future. She knew even then she wasn’t meant to be a mother, but maybe raising a child with someone she thought she loved made it seem so much easier and safer that she gave in.
She gave birth to a beautiful baby girl who resembled her father a lot more than her. She wasn’t mad, though; she was adorable to look at, and her eyes were the same as hers. Her heart felt like it would burst just when she held her daughter for the first time, and she wondered if maybe she could be a good mother.
When she looked up to see her husband smile down at her and his new daughter, she knew everything was going to be okay.
She was wrong.
The first three years after the child was born was a bliss. Money was tight, but the woman and her husband made it work.
She loved seeing her daughter find out more about the world, even if she didn’t know yet how hard and cruel it really was. She was beautifully unaware of it, and the childish curiosity made the woman want to give her the best childhood she could.
She also loved seeing her husband be a father. Sometimes when she came home from work, she would see her husband play pretend with her, laughing along at her ridiculous stories. The woman would capture the moment, keeping it in her mind to share with her daughter years later.
The woman could get used to it all. The daughter, the husband, the life... So long as everything went as it did then, then there was nothing to worry about.
But life was cruel.
Her marriage ended. It wasn’t suddenly, and she knew it was going to happen eventually. Fights occurred more between her and her husband, and her daughter would hide in her room or quickly leave the house when that happened. Sometimes, her husband would leave to stay with his parents on the next few towns over, five hours away, just to stay away from her.
The woman would assure her daughter everything was fine, but she could tell she didn’t believe that.
Being a mother was getting tiring as well. Taking care of someone that wasn’t herself was exhausting, and now that her daughter was twelve-years-old, turning thirteen in a few months, she realized she didn’t like children; she liked babies. She didn’t like what babies grew into, and that was a problem.
But she didn’t have time for that. She needed an escape. She started drinking just enough to stay sober enough for her daughter to think nothing was wrong. Her husband knew, but she didn’t give two fucks about him.
And then came the day that ruined everything. Instead of getting a divorce like a good natured man would do, he left his husband and his child.
The woman only found out the next day. The rage she felt while reading his note that he thought could explain everything couldn’t be described.
That day was the one that stuck in her mind the most, only because of what happened after.
The woman grabbed the nearest bottle and threw it against the wall. The glass smashing and falling onto the ground was satisfying to see, but her anger was still there.
Her daughter took hesitant steps toward her. She read the note herself, but she still asked where her father—that good-for-nothing, piece-of-shit man—was.
The woman didn’t bother hiding her anger. Still, the daughter asked if he would come back. She asked if she could see him sometimes. She asked if they could go visit him. She asked, she asked, she asked.
The questions boiled in the woman’s brain until she couldn’t handle it anymore. She grabbed the next nearest bottle and smashed it against her head.
Only in horror after did she realize she hit her own daughter.
Her daughter wasn’t crying, just sitting on the floor with her eyes glued to the floor. She gently touched where she was struck, and her eyes were then glued to the blood on her fingers.
The woman dropped what was left of the bottle and tried to apologize. Her daughter ran away, retreating to the bathroom to get the bandages.
From that day on, her opinions on her mother changed. It was evident from the way she acted more scared of her and kept out of her way. She never asked for help and did everything by herself—she seemed to be raising herself.
A good mother would apologize and try to make things right. A good mother would make sure that never happened again, and that her daughter knew that she still loved her.
But the woman wasn’t a good mother.
With her daughter practically out of the picture, she felt free. No one was telling her that she needed to be a good mother, that her daughter’s future was in her hands. She was free now, and that meant she could do whatever she pleased.
That didn’t mean partying though. The woman didn’t have the energy for that. She had energy to drink, stay in her house, and watch TV all day. Who gave a shit about rent? She never got an eviction notice.
Her daughter... She could care less. A part of her still loved her and wanted the best for her, but it was just too much energy to actually take care of her or even acknowledge her existence other than the occasional bottle smash against her. She should’ve aborted her.
She should’ve divorced her now-ex-husband while she was at it. Fuck him, sort of fuck her, and fuck herself until even God was done with her shit.
Her daughter ignored her now. It was probably better that way. Still, she wondered how life would’ve been like if she had been a good mother, what their relationship would’ve been like.
The woman looked at her daughter, much older now than when she was twelve-years-old—how long ago was that?—rush to her room with her head bent low. In another reality, the woman would go up and comfort her daughter. Too bad that’s not our current reality, huh, Aubrey?