I refuse to leave this world the same way I entered it — unwanted.
I'm still on the journey, but one thing is certain. I was born to a 16-year-old girl who couldn't love me — not because she was evil, but because I was never her choice. My conception wasn't her will. I had nothing to do with that, yet I paid for it.
[ WHERE IT STARTED ]
I was about twenty-nine when I asked my grandmother about her childhood. She couldn't answer at first. Days later, she came back to me and said: "My mother was a terrible person." I looked at her and saw not a grown woman, but a broken little child. That child never left her.
She told me how, at just six years old, her mother locked her in a cellar — not the kind you know today, but a cold, dark place in 1940s Luxembourg. No heating, no light, no electricity. Bread, water, and a potty, to survive punishment she did not deserve. Her mother drank, partied, and left behind thirteen estranged children with five different fathers. No warmth. No safety. No childhood.