"The Suicide Note of an Anonymous Mother"

It is with a heavy heart and shaking hand that I pen this, now. Ten years ago, when my daughter was born, I could have sworn that I knew such joy that I would never again feel sorrow. Had I known what I do now, I might have taken a blade to the babe's neck. My own daughter. My flesh and blood.

My husband, her father, was so enamored with her. I do not believe any child was so well doted upon, growing up – she was his sun, moon, and stars. Her pains, my husband felt tenfold. For each tear, he would shed three more. She occupied his every thought, and there was scarcely a sentence out of his mouth that did not mention her name.

It was inevitable, perhaps, that I would grow envious. Sickened each time I heard her mentioned, until there was no love left in my heart for her. A child so beloved, not even loved by her own mother!

I see now, I was monstrous. There is no abuse harsher than indifference.

As she grew older, her pull grew stronger. I hadn’t thought it possible, but her father’s love deepened by the day. Somehow, my heart was untouched. I could see in her face how it pained her, and often heard her gently crying herself to sleep.

Perhaps spite kept me from adoring her, as was proper – it seemed all who laid eyes on her cared about her, as though she were their own daughter. How could I not be resentful? What was wrong with me?

The trend continued, and I thought things would never change. Oh, how I pray now that I could go back and call attention to my own foolishness. My husband still felt my daughter’s hurts, and it seemed that this needed proving.

Early this morning, we both saw her run and take a tumble. She scraped her knee.

Not an hour ago, I walked in to find my husband, mutilating his leg with a kitchen knife, slicing the skin apart. I could see the white of his bone, his kneecap hanging loosely and blood all over the floor – I screamed. Screamed myself hoarse. He was so intent that he scarcely lifted his eyes.

I simply cannot cope.

I write this letter now with a noose laying across my lap, with one simple request to all who may read this:

Love her.

Love her, as I could not. Love her so dearly that she forgets all the years I gave her no affection.

Love my daughter, as a mother should.