A Daughter Never Born
The story of my mother - Part 1
“I was so disappointed when you were born because I always wanted to have a daughter.”
She bent down and told me this fact with a smile.
“I also bought a pink blanket for you!” – she added while continuing with her chore.
I heard these sentences regularly as a child, and I believe she never understood their weight.
My mother was born in a small village in Hungary as the youngest of four children. She had two sisters and one brother. She was pretty, with mid-length dark hair and a soft, uncertain smile – one that seemed unsure whether it was allowed to stay.
Later in her life, her face changed and took on the expression of an anxious, neurotic person. Thin cheeks, nervous eyes. Her lips were always pressed into a line, her jaw slightly clenched, as if she was holding something in.
The Family She Came From
Her mother – my grandmother – never worked a single day in her life. That was common back then. Her father was an agricultural laborer and a heavy drinker.
I never got to know my grandfather; he died before I was born. I’ve only seen him in a few black-and-white pictures. He looked decent, well-groomed, with a mustache – probably tall, though that’s just an assumption based on the photos. But he wasn’t happy. He tried to escape his inner demons with alcohol. My mother once mentioned he threw his salary into the fire. Another time, she told me that one night, drunk, he came into the room where she and her sister were sleeping and touched them beneath the blanket. She never said more, and I never asked
That family – unable to talk, without any real support – was the place where my mother learned what life is.
The Man She Married
It’s almost inevitable that she ended up with a man like my father: an alcoholic, lost, insecure man. But he looked good when he was young. Curly dark hair, a mustache, flared denim jeans, and even some personal interests — like traveling, music (he loved Pink Floyd), reading books, and geography — which was not a lot in our family.
I don’t know much about their early relationship. What I do know is that my father often showed up drunk at her workplace events, was extremely jealous, and forbade her to go out or have any friends. When she once wanted to return the engagement ring, my grandmother said she couldn’t. “It would be a shame.”
So my mother married a man she didn’t want to marry.
They built a house — possible even for poor people at the time — and had their first child, my brother. Six years later, I was born. My grandmother lived with us back then. She had her own room, and my father hated her because she never worked and was obese.
One Scene I Can’t Forget
My father came home drunk. As always, he was extremely hungry. He didn’t find anything in the fridge he liked. Furious, he grabbed a sausage, stormed into my grandmother’s room, threw it at her and screamed:
“Eat this too, you fattened cow!”
I was sitting on the stairs, watching.
These stories are part of where I come from. But today, I try to move forward – literally and figuratively. Running helps me feel connected to my body, to the present, and to the idea of home I’m still looking for.
My first 30-kilometer run in this training. Just me, out there searching for more: a home, peace, and myself.
