THE CHILD I REFUSE TO LOVE Episode 1

My name is Margaret, and if there is one thing I have learned too late in life, it is that jealousy can grow quietly like a weed, wrapping itself around your heart until there is no space left for love.

For seven long years of my marriage, my womb remained closed. Every month came with disappointment. Every family gathering came with questions disguised as concern.

“Any good news yet?”
“We are praying for you.”
“Don’t worry, God’s time is the best.”

But the words that hurt the most came from my younger sister, Lydia.

Lydia had always been the lucky one. Even as children, she was the prettier one, the livelier one, the one everyone admired. When she got married, she conceived immediately. A year later, she carried her baby girl, Anita, proudly in her arms while I stood beside her, forcing a smile.

One afternoon during a family visit, she laughed and said, “Margaret, maybe you are not relaxing enough. You think too much. Babies come when you stop worrying.”

Everyone laughed lightly. Maybe she meant no harm. But I felt stripped bare in front of them.

I went home that day and cried into my pillow until my chest hurt.

Two years later, God remembered me. I conceived and gave birth to my son, David. The joy I felt when I first held him erased years of shame. I promised him silently that he would never lack anything. He would never feel small. He would never be mocked the way I was.

But life has a way of twisting stories.

When Anita was six years old, Lydia fell ill. It was sudden and aggressive. Within months, the vibrant woman who once laughed at my worries was reduced to a shadow on a hospital bed.

The day before she died, she called me close.

Her voice was weak. “Margaret… please… take care of Anita for me. She is all I have.”

I held her hand tightly. In that moment, I saw fear in her eyes not pride, not laughter. Just fear for her child.

“I will,” I said.

And I meant it… at least I thought I did.

After the burial, Anita came to live with us. She stood quietly in our sitting room, holding a small pink suitcase. Her eyes were swollen from crying.

David ran around happily, unaware of what loss meant. He was my miracle child, my pride. And now here stood Lydia’s daughter under my roof.

At night, as I lay in bed, memories returned Lydia’s laughter, her comments, her ease at everything that had once been difficult for me.

I looked at Anita sleeping beside David and felt something dark rise inside me.

*Your mother made me feel small,* I thought.
*Now you will know what it means to struggle.*

That was the night bitterness took root in my heart.

And that was the night I began to fail a child who had done nothing wrong.

continue reading Episode 2