My daughter is 16. She’s sharp, well-liked, and walks into a room like she owns it. And sometimes, I feel this ugly resentment toward her.
Not because she’s done anything unforgivable—she hasn’t. But every little thing she does reminds me of her mother.
Her mom left when our daughter was little. She lied to me for years, made promises she never kept, and when she finally walked out, she barely looked back. She moved across the country with someone new, leaving our daughter behind with me, but still managing to control the narrative—making herself the victim to anyone who would listen.
