From the moment she was born, her paternal grandmother despised her for being a girl, and her father was indifferent to her. Yet, as I watched her angelic face while she slept, I vowed to give my best to this little darling.
With no one to care for her, I had no choice but to carry her on my back during the day while working odd jobs in the factory and taking on handicraft work at night, striving to support us both.
As she grew up, despite our poor living conditions, she didn't fare worse than her peers. Her cleverness made me feel that everything was worthwhile.
When she got into the best university in the city, I was so proud. To earn money, to escape that stagnant home, and to see my daughter often, I started selling pancakes at the back door of the school.
The first time she saw me with friends at my stall, her shock was evident. I was overjoyed, waiting for her to call me "Mom," but instead, she hurriedly turned away, embarrassed.
She grabbed her friend and left.
I stood there, watching her retreating figure, feeling a deep sense of loss.
But I consoled myself, thinking that children care about their image. Maybe she just needed time to accept it.