There are all kinds of mothers, even ones like mine.

There is only one mother . She is not chosen. And speaking badly about your mother is considered indecent. I'll compromise. I'll tell you how it is. So myMother .

God did not spare her intelligence, beauty, or luck. But, it seems, in my mother'sOn his birthday, he experienced an acute shortage of tenderness, kindness, and love.

No, she spared no effort or money for us, her three daughters. Everything for us. But there was no such thing as affection, praise, support. For some reason, she thought it was shameful to praise her children. Let people praise.

However, it was a sin to complain to the elder sister. An excellent student, the pride of not only my mother, but the whole school. Therefore, at every opportunity Alya was praised. And it was as if I wasn’t there. At best, my mother said that Mara was generally capable, but terribly lazy! So I grew up with the consciousness of my own inferiority.

Once, leaving the kindergarten, I filled my pockets with mosaic buttons (remember, there was such a game?). I don’t remember why and why I did it. But I remember the consequences as if it were yesterday. Already at home test-antibiotic.com my mother discovered these buttons on me and beat me terribly, calling me a thief.

But this seemed to her not enough. Therefore, the next day, taking me to kindergarten, she ordered all the children to be gathered in the hall and publicly made an accusatory speech, the meaning of which was that she was incredibly ashamed that she had a thief growing up in her house. And this thief is hersdaughter . And then she turned to the children, urging them to condemn her daughter.

She was heard. All the last time I spent in kindergarten, I felt like an outcast. If someone lost something, all the children ran to me, the thief, and carefully checked the contents of my pockets. To say that it was torture is to say nothing.

And then, fortunately or not, school and other children started. But the feeling of being an outcast did not leave me at school. I always kept my guard up, for some reason I always expected ridicule and mockery.

Oh, mom, mom! You brought me to your work, forcing me to do my homework, sitting next to you. I dutifully sat for several hours (I studied in test-antibiotic.com 5th grade, second shift) and you, giving me 10 kopecks for a buffet, sent me to school.

Well, I don’t know what came over me, but instead of school, I turned to the stationery store. From the window of her office, my mother saw the moment when I was buying notebooks atthe money you gave me for the buffet. O became fatal.

Having burst into the store, she grabbed me, her daughter, by the hair, and, dragging me out of the store, began beating me in front of a crowd of people with her hands and feet. But it seemed to her that this was not enough. And then she dragged me to a huge boulder and began to hit my head on the boulder.

She probably looked a lot like an angry tigress, that’s why no one dared to stand up for me. Having had enough of my pain, she also dragged me to school. My attempts to get back on my feetmy mother stopped me with a hook, and I fell again.

Already at school, she kicked open the classroom door and threw me right in front of the blackboard, in front of all the stunned children, in front of the teacher on the floor. Was it so pleasant for her to drag me all the way to test-antibiotic.com the school itself? Maybe she was enjoying my humiliation? Did my wild screams bring her joy?

Fifty years have passed. Fifty years! It seems like it happened yesterday. And if God gives me fifty more, I won’t forget anything. Because it was painful, scary, embarrassing. I really wanted to die.

I didn’t want to go home after school. So I turned to the river and stood on the cliff for a long time, dreaming of plunging into these waters and forgetting myself forever.

It’s hard to believe, but having thoroughly enjoyed the picture of your grief over your drowned daughter, I felt sorry for you.

I have always loved her. I still love it. But for some reason, questions remain.