B.Løvetann

42 Years Old – And Still Her Daughter
Yesterday was my birthday.

I turned 42.
And honestly, it was a really lovely day.

For the first time in many years, I invited my children, my mother, and my sister over for pizza and board games. I had been looking forward to it so much.

But my birthday is also the day of the year when I feel the deepest disappointment in the woman who gave birth to me.
For the past twenty years, she has forgotten my birthday more often than she has remembered it.
Last year, she forgot—even though we spoke on the phone that very day.
This year, she forgot again.

Whenever someone points it out to her, she says she’s sorry.
And I actually believe she means it.
But it still hurts.
Every single year.
I know I probably shouldn’t expect anything different.
Yet I still end up disappointed.
I still get hurt.
And I can’t help it.

It makes me wonder…
How can someone who wanted children find it so easy to forget one of them?
Every year, I remember her birthday.
Almost never has she remembered mine.

For the past twenty years, I’ve hardly ever received a birthday or Christmas present from her.
The same goes for my children.
Her grandchildren.
Not because she never buys gifts.
She does.

My youngest brother is remembered.
He’s received expensive presents.
Not only him.
Some of his friends have received Christmas and birthday gifts too.
Meanwhile, my children and I have been told she couldn’t afford anything.

And no…
This isn’t really about the gifts.
It never has been.
It’s about priorities.
About who is remembered.
About who is chosen.

I know this may sound childish.
After all, I’m 42 years old.
But the truth is…
I’m still the child she chose to bring into this world.
She chose to have me.
But the choices she made afterward never made me feel like she also chose to be my mother.
I think that’s what hurts the most.
Because I simply cannot understand it.

I’m a mother myself.
My children were wanted.
The day they were born.
And they’re still wanted today.
Even if they don’t call every day.
Even if they sometimes think I’m the most annoying person on earth.
That’s their job.

But it is never my job to love them any less because they’re growing up.
I look at my children with a pride that’s difficult to put into words.
They are kind.
Helpful.
Caring.
Generous.

They are so much more than just my children.
They are the result of thousands of small choices.
Choosing to show up.
Choosing to care.
Choosing to be there.

So I still can’t understand…
How can you forget your own child’s birthday?
How can you treat your children so differently that some grow up feeling they’re worth less than the others?

Children are not a social experiment.
They’re human beings.
Even though I’m now 42 years old, I still carry the consequences of the neglect I experienced as a child.

People often think neglect belongs in childhood.
Sometimes it doesn’t.
Sometimes it continues.
Not through violence.
Not through shouting.
But through absence.
Through the things that are never done.
The birthdays that are forgotten.
The phone calls that never come.

For me, this has never been about money.
Or presents.
Or what she could or couldn’t afford.
It’s about what she chooses to spend her time, her thoughts, and her love on.
And perhaps that’s the hardest realization of all.

The woman who gave me life…
never truly chose to be my mother.