My mother was only eighteen when she died. Her name was Maria Bruce. My mother died when she gave birth to me, Sarah Bruce. I always thought that it was my fault that she died, But my uncle Boris who took care of me for seventeen years now, thought that I was being too hard on myself. He always said that it wasn’t my fault, he also said that she knew that there’s a small chance that she will survive and she still choose to give birth to me. Boris was always nice to me but he didn’t love me, I could feel that. When I was little I used to go to the playground not to play with kids but to watch them play, how they would run to their mothers crying because they fell, and their mum’s would just hug them and kiss them on the cheek. When I was on the swings I always imagined my mother sitting on the bench talking to someone and then she would look at me and wave her hand as her white teeth were showing while her beautiful smile was on her face.
I guess I never had friends because I was jealous of them and their families. I never understood my class mates talking about how they can’t wait to leave their mothers house and start living on their own; they probably didn’t understand how important it is have someone to love them.
