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I wrote my confession on another site once before, and I was almost cursed there. It’s been a couple of years, but nothing has changed. It didn’t get any easier on my soul, and I want to speak out and repent again. But no, I don’t feel like repenting.

I hate my kid. I, as a mother, do not love my child at all. When she was an infant, I took care of her, and I thought I truly loved her. I couldn’t help it if I was a mother.

But gradually, doubts crept in, eating away at my soul. And the older my daughter grew, the less love and more hatred she felt. By inertia, I still cared about her, worried about her. I did what everyone else did.

Once, when my daughter was 3 years old, she and I almost got hit by a car. And I suddenly thought: how peaceful and happy my life would have been if I hadn’t had time to move the stroller away from the approaching truck…

Once, when my daughter was 3 years old, she and I almost got hit by a car. And I suddenly thought: how peaceful and happy my life would have been if I hadn’t had time to move the stroller away from the approaching truck…

I remember going into her little girl’s bedroom, she should have been awake by now, and listening: what if she’s not breathing? After all, sudden infant death syndrome can happen. You listen not with fear, but with hope.

My daughter is no different from her peers: she is pretty, does well in school, socializes with friends, helps around the house, is not rude, and calls back if she stays out late. Friends and relatives praise her, teachers and tutor adore her.

My daughter’s love for me, for her mother, is the worst: because I hate her. And I don’t call her daughter, only by her first name. I don’t just dislike the way she touches me, I don’t like the way she dresses, what she says, how she moves, how she laughs. Everything about her irritates me. I want her to die and disappear from my life.

I don’t tell her that, but indirectly my attitude towards her is clear and the child feels it perfectly well. I can’t and won’t pretend, and I’m not trying to.

I’m serving the duty of raising a child like a prison sentence. I feed her, do her laundry, take care of her health. And I dream of pushing her into an independent life, away from me. But I realize that my time is also running out, that I will remain an old woman, alone and not wanted by anyone.

I don’t love her and I don’t want to love her. All I want is for her to be gone. I live in hell, and I don’t have the strength to get out of it. It’s not my fault that I don’t love my child. Or is it?

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