I watched in disbelief as my mother’s gentle expression hardened before my eyes. What began as a soft gesture—tucking the blanket around my son—shifted into something sharp and unsettling. She yanked the blanket with force, her voice losing its warmth.
“Stop being such a crybaby,” she snapped. “You need to learn to behave.”
My son froze, fear flashing in his eyes. I stood hidden for a moment, trying to understand what I was seeing. This was not the mother I knew—the nurturing woman who had raised me with patience and care. As she scolded him over trivial things—a toy on the floor, a crayon left out—I felt a cold wave of realization wash over me.
This was what my son had been trying to tell me. The “weird” behavior I had dismissed as childish exaggeration was real. My heart pounded as I stepped out of the closet, anger and disbelief colliding inside me.
“Mom, stop!” I said sharply, my voice trembling.
She turned to me, startled and defensive. “I’m just trying to teach him,” she argued, as if her harshness was somehow justified.
“Teach him what?” I asked, my voice breaking. “To fear the people who are supposed to love him?”
For a moment, her eyes softened, and I caught a glimpse of the woman I remembered. But the damage had already been done. My son ran into my arms, burying his face against me, his tiny body trembling. I held him close, my heart aching with guilt and clarity.
