At this time, I still had a glimmer of kindness in my heart; I didn't want to hurt my mother too much.
When I was barely seven months pregnant, my mother couldn't wait to have the doctor prepare for a cesarean section. The day before the operation, my mother got out of bed. She was no longer so cautious. She took my sister and father for a walk downstairs.
"Once this child is born tomorrow, my Bianca won't have to suffer so much." Mom's tone was filled with anticipation.
"That's the meaning of this child's birth." Dad agreed.
My sister asked me what my name was.
Mom casually said, "Let's call him Bryan."
A child born from Bianca's injury was naturally not valued. Tears streamed down my face. It was not that I couldn’t die, it was just that those methods were too harmful to my body.
I had to admit that I still had hope for them. I loved Mom. I've loved her since I was in her womb. But she didn’t love me. Then I didn’t want her anymore.
I looked at the placenta, reached out and tore it apart. I tried my best to be quick and fierce.
