I blame myself for not loving my own son.
Sometimes, fate poses questions we can’t answer. Worse still, sometimes *we* become the question—the kind we don’t know how to live with. This isn’t my story, but ever since I heard it, it hasn’t let me go.
My name is Eleanor. I grew up in a large family—seven of us: Mum, Dad, and five daughters. I was the youngest. And from as far back as I can remember, one thought gnawed at me: *Which of us does Mum love the most?*
I’d pester her about it, especially when we were alone. But Mum never singled any of us out. Her answer never changed: *”I love you all the same. You’re my children, and my love is one—a mother’s love.”* Back then, it felt like an evasion. Now, looking back, I know it was the only right answer. Mum was wise. Because of her fairness, my sisters and I grew up close, always ready to stand by each other.
But me? I’m a mother to just one. I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like for those with more. Yet recently, I met a woman whose story forced me to face things I’d never dared consider.
Her name was Beatrice. We met when she joined our department. We clicked right away—lunch breaks, shared confidences. I’ve always liked hearing others’ stories; it’s a way to know not just a person, but the shadows in yourself.
Beatrice often spoke of her daughter—how bright she was, how kind, how helpful. She posted proud little updates, lit up with every milestone. I listened, smiling, envying her warmth.
Then one day, she mentioned a gift from… her *son*. I frowned. *”Son? You’ve never mentioned having another child.”* She gave a stiff little laugh, hesitated, then told me.
Her son had come first. She’d been young then, full of ambition, determined to be the perfect mother. She tried—fed him, bathed him, did everything *right*—but a cold truth settled in: she was going through the motions. No warmth, no pull in her heart. It was all *duty*, never *desire*.
*”I can’t explain it,”* she said quietly. *”He was a good boy. Obedient, clever, tried so hard. But nothing. I told myself it would come later… It never did.”*
Then, four years later, her daughter arrived. And everything *shifted*. The love she’d waited for crashed over her like a wave. She doted on the baby, spoiled her, shielded her. And all the while, her son slipped further away. She never struck him, never yelled. But she never held him, never kissed him, never said *I love you*. He was a stranger in her home.
The guilt festered. She blamed it on depression, exhaustion, not being ready. But the truth was simpler, uglier: *she just didn’t love him.* And realizing how fiercely she adored her daughter only made it worse—because one had been given everything, the other only obligation.
*”Sometimes,”* Beatrice whispered, *”I picture him—little, watching me kiss his sister’s head, stroke her hair. And for him? Nothing. He remembered. Always. I saw it in his eyes—the same silent question I’d asked her: *‘Who do you love more?’* And I couldn’t lie. Because he already knew.”*
Now, her son was grown—successful, respectable. He helped her, was polite. But between them lay a wasteland of emptiness, of stiff, practiced affection.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t judge. But my chest ached. *Does this really happen? That you can’t love your own child? That one soul answers when called, and the other stays silent?*
Maybe the worst sin isn’t hatred, or cruelty. Maybe it’s the absence—the hollowness where love should be.
Since then, I’ve looked at my colleagues, my friends, my neighbors differently. Everyone has a story. And somewhere, maybe, there’s a woman who says nothing, but burns every night with the shame of failing to love the one who needed it most.
