It's ironic, isn't it? I never had the desire to become a parent. Sure, children are adorable, innocent, and tiny, but that didn't necessarily mean I wanted one of my own. However, everything changed when I met him; I believed I was in love. By nature, I'm quite introverted and cautious, always careful to avoid any potential pitfalls laid by others. I maintained a facade of the "perfect daughter" for my parents, embodying their vision of success. I attended church, feigned devotion, yet my heart was distant from the truth, causing me pain. I was determined to keep my constructed persona intact, not letting anyone peer behind the mask. The reassurances of "I'm just fine" or "Nothing's wrong" were lies I told myself and others, trying to make them true. I despised being labeled as the "quiet, reserved girl" or "the obedient daughter." I yearned to defy those labels, and at twenty-six, I thought I found love and gave myself to him. Initially, I saw him as a good man with a difficult past. I believed I was different from the women before me, that I could offer him help and love. But reality is often harsh, especially when confronted with the words, "You're just like my ex." Those words threw me into confusion, making me want to deny them, yet knowing he wouldn't be swayed. Despite this, he would profess his love for me the next day, and I would let it slide. His words repeatedly wounded me; he never resorted to physical violence, but sometimes I wished he had, as I could defend myself against that, but I struggled with verbal confrontations. He manipulated me, blaming me for his cruelty, and I kept forgiving him. Substance abuse may have clouded my emotions and judgment, preventing me from standing up for myself, but ultimately, I had only myself to blame. Five months into our relationship, he ended things on my birthday. While not entirely unexpected, the real shock came when I discovered I was five months pregnant, meaning I conceived during our first month together. Even more astonishing was learning from a mutual acquaintance, his former roommate, that he was engaged and about to be married within a week. He continued to message me, and after learning of my pregnancy, his texts grew increasingly vicious, to the point where they could have caused a miscarriage had I not ceased communication. I blocked him and resolved to move forward, vowing to raise my child with the care and love I never received, promising them a better life. Last year, my mother passed away, and my stepfather, preoccupied with his new girlfriend, stopped answering my calls. With strained relationships with my siblings, I chose to leave them be. In April, I gave birth to my daughter. The doctor who performed the C-section remarked, "Her cheeks are as lovely as the colors of a Sakura tree." However, mentally, I wasn't fully present. After leaving the hospital, I returned home to my apartment with my daughter, whom I had named "Imiko" without much thought - meaning "Unwanted child." If my late mother were here, she would have scolded me for choosing such a name. Despite her own struggles, my mother had named me with care and raised me without regret. When Imiko turned two, I left her alone in the house for an hour while she slept in her crib. I needed a break, so I went to the bar across the street. Upon returning home, I heard Imiko screaming from the backroom. Annoyed, I shouted at her, desperate for a moment of peace. Imiko stopped crying, looking frightened. I felt guilty - why, I couldn't say. Taking her out of the crib, I gave her an apple and instructed her to play quietly in her room until dinner. This was one of the many times during her two years of life that I had screamed at her without thinking. When she turned four, I was able to put her in Pre-K. I don't know why or how, but I did realize that Imiko was smart, even for her age. She began speaking full sentences when she was about eight months old, which wasn't odd to me - I thought it was normal for a child's growth. Still, even when I noticed this, I didn't care; all I wanted was freedom. So, when I was able to enroll her in school, I felt a slight weight taken off my shoulders. I know - I'm a pretty terrible mother. I left her in the hands of strangers in my neighborhood during my dates, and a few times, I even left her alone. When Imiko turned five, she collapsed while I was on a date. The person who was watching her at the time called me, but I didn't answer. I saw the phone ring, but I just wanted a few more minutes before I went back. The phone rang a few more times before it stopped altogether. I woke up in a hotel, not sure how I got there, but the man I was on a date with was still asleep in bed. I hurriedly took a shower, dressed, and left. When I arrived home, I was surprised to find it quiet. I called and texted Marie, the college student I had left Imiko with, but she wouldn't answer. After several failed attempts to reach her, panic set in. I wondered if she had kidnapped Imiko or, worse, harmed her. I don't know why these feelings suddenly swelled up in me, considering I used to suppress them. But even if I neglected Imiko, somewhere deep down, I cared for her. Tears flowed from my eyes as I called my neighbors, only to be met with hang-ups or harsh words before they hung up. Thirty minutes later, as I sat on the steps of my apartment, crying, my phone rang again - this time, it was Marie. The news that Imiko had collapsed and was in the hospital shocked me to the core. Without bothering to put on a seatbelt, I rushed to my car and sped off to the hospital. Upon my arrival, I hastened to the reception, where I was directed to her room. As I approached Imiko's room and paused at the entrance, I was taken aback by the sight of her with a breathing tube and connected to a monitor. Marie, who had been by her side, rose and approached me. Expecting an embrace, I was instead met with a sharp slap that left my cheek stinging. Standing before me, seething with fury, Marie had struck me. In stunned silence, I cradled my face as tears streamed down. "Why are you crying, Yuki? You have no right to cry! You're unfit to be a mother," Marie scolded, her gaze piercing. "She's been asking for you since she got here, and I kept assuring her you'd arrive. What delayed you, and why did you ignore my calls?" I stammered, "I - I," but she interrupted me. "Enough with the excuses. I've been looking after her - your daughter. Any responsible mother would have prioritized my call!" With that, Marie turned and resumed her seat. I shuffled my feet, moved to the opposite side of the bed, and took a seat in the chair that faced her. Later that day, the doctor's visit delivered heartbreaking news that struck me profoundly. Imiko's organs were failing at an unprecedented rate. She was given a maximum of one month to live. Although they couldn't cure her, they could alleviate her pain. The cause remained a mystery, but it was advised that I use this time to say my goodbyes. Two and a half weeks later, sooner than predicted, Imiko succumbed. The autopsy revealed traces of Ethylene Glycol, typically found in brake fluid. Learning this, I was incensed. Yoshio, my neighbor who should have been watching Imiko on the day of her collapse, is a car mechanic. His garage and apartment are filled with car parts, tools, and substances like antifreeze and brake fluid. They told me the substance had been administered into her system in small, undetectable doses over several weeks. My dear Imiko suffered because of my negligence, because I failed to prioritize her protection. A month after Imiko's funeral and Yoshio's imprisonment, I found myself isolated in my apartment, adamant about not going outside. I lay on the bed, crying, and at times, in bursts of anger, I would scream, hurling items or knocking them from the table to shatter on the floor. Insanity had gripped me. My voluntary isolation resulted in a shortage of food, and I began to suffer from hunger. I saw this as a fitting punishment - a karmic backlash. For the pain and neglect I had inflicted on my child, I felt unworthy of the very air I breathed. In the end, compelled by this distorted sense of justice, I crafted a noose from ripped blankets and suspended myself from the bed's canopy. As the room gradually dimmed, a single thought emerged: "If I am ever granted another opportunity, I will not make the same mistakes. I will become a better mother than I have ever been. Perhaps, if somehow - " "I absolutely refuse to let you take the easy way out!" came the vehement shout of a familiar voice before I blacked out.