The Day I Went Looking for My Real Mother (A Short Story)

A reflection on mother-daughter wounds, identity, and healing

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I was eight years old when I decided to leave home and find my real mother.

It wasn’t a dramatic decision. No thunderclap, no screaming match. Just one of those regular days where my mother looked at me like I was a noise she couldn’t wait to switch off.

I don’t remember exactly what I did that day, maybe I forgot to sweep the parlour, maybe I sighed too loud when she asked me to bring water from the fridge. The truth is, I don’t remember the moment that broke me. I just remember packing my things.

My school bag. One biscuit. My favorite book. A wrapper. I didn’t know where I was going, but I thought real mothers knew how to find their daughters. All I had to do was leave the signal. So, I wrote a note. A small letter in my best handwriting:

“I am going to look for my real mummy. Don’t look for me.”

I put it on the back of the door so she would see it when she came in. It felt so smart, so final. My heart was shaking inside me, but I was proud of myself. Maybe now she’d worry. Maybe she’d run outside calling my name. Maybe she’d cry.