My mother was a beautiful woman, that was my conclusion after a long period of observing the world. She was a beautiful woman, be it from outside or inside.

 

Even if her face were lined with worry, even if the beautiful feature that made my father – and his deplorable friends – target her had already wilted, she was still more beautiful than those cheap and garish women surrounding him.

 

She never tried to pretty herself, she always made a subtle effort to look unflattering, but her beauty was still shining through. It was something that couldn’t be eclipsed. Even her status as The Saint made sure that she wouldn’t be able to hide from scrutiny.

 

She was also a beautiful and strong woman inside. People always said that she was a meek doormat and pitiful wretch, that her status as the Saint was the only plus point of her miserable existence, but I knew better. Hidden under her guilt and self-blame was a strong and kind character, I could tell since that was the cause of my existence.

 

Many of the people that are lauded as a kind and generous person are just a filthy self-serving creature inside. They look kind but hid their viciousness inside, only to lash it out on anyone weaker or whoever under their care. They would pretty themselves, speak with gentle words, and try to portray themselves as a weak and harmless flower without any thorn that could mar their beauty.

 

But I knew for a fact that those people could, and would unhesitantly choke, strangle, and trample other people’s neck for any advantage they could get.

 

My mother, she was different. Even though there was no reason at all for her to love me as she did, even if there were a million reasons for her to kill me while I was in her womb...

 

She still loved me with all her heart. Giving me all the affection that she could give me whenever she could surface from her self-blame and hatred. I wouldn’t begrudge her for ignoring me whenever she had too much on her mind, because even with that, the amount of love she showered me was still more than what other people gave for their offspring.

 

She was selfless and all giving. She hid her strength under the veneer of meekness and submission. She also never forgot to remind me whenever I was stuck in melancholy, that even if I was born of sin and deceit, I was ultimately blameless.

 

I love my mother, but I hate what my existence meant for her. I hate it because I can tell that she was hurt deeply when she remembered my origin. Even when she hid it cleverly, even if she never lashed and snapped at me like those ‘kind and generous people’ at those they perceive as an offending object, even if she always speak of love...

 

I can tell. And she knew of it.

 

But then whenever I was sad and she knew that I hate myself because she was hurt when she looked at me...

 

She would only turn her face away but kept me close and hugged me until she can look at me without being swept over by hurtful memory.

 

She would then looked at me fondly, and whisper. “You are really too perceptive... too perceptive of your own good.”

 

She was never the one to implore me to hide who I am by saying ’Hide your observation talent so you wouldn’t be taken advantage of’, but I could read it from the line in her eyelids, and the subtle gesture she made.

 

Oh, she always worried for me even if she should have been praying for my demise.

 

She would only caution me,” Don’t be affected by what you saw in others... stand for yourself and don’t be afraid, I will be here for you.”

 

... []

 

I looked up to her ever since I was cognizant of my own self, but I never told her so. I only ever said that I always wanted to grow up to be someone like her.

 

She had dissuaded me, saying, “Oh, my darling daughter, don’t grow up to be like me, I am an ugly and wretched being”

 

And I had insisted,” No, mother, you are a beautiful woman. you are only being called ugly and wretched because showing  your beauty would make those disgusting and deplorable people target you and make you more miserable.”

 

As my observation made her smile grimly, I continued. ”I would grow up one day and we will go away from this place, two beautiful and strong women finding their place in the world.”

 

She would try to dissuade me further, saying, “Oh, darling daughter, I am not strong at all, I am a meek and submissive woman.”

 

And I had answered,” No, mother, you are strong, you give me shelter and stood over me, protecting me against all that could harm me. I am the one who made you become weak, I am just a burden that you willingly suffer to carry.”

 

As her melancholy, regret, and self-loathing started to drown her, I pulled her hands closer, clasping it against my chest. “I would grow up and be strong for you, anytime you feel you can’t carry on, I would gladly hold you up and carry you.”

 

She only gave me a watery smile, so I tread on and made a solemn swear,” if being a woman made us weak, then I would throw away my identity and carry on as a man. I will be a man you can be proud of!“

 

“Being a woman doesn’t make us weak, darling... it just I don’t think I could be as strong as they can...” that was what she said to me back then.

 

So I replied with another oath.” Mother, I would grow to be someone you can depend on! Thus I swear!”

 

...[]

 

I kept the conversation inside my heart, and remember the oath that I swore in the subsequent days, months and years after.

 

Even now that I was alone with nothing else to keep me in the world, especially now that she had passed away, I will carry on with the promise.

 

I would grow up to be as beautiful and strong as she is. Even if right now I had to be a man so I could protect myself, I would uphold my oath.

 

I would be someone she would depend on were she her together with me in this instance.

 

And I would be someone she was proud to call as her daughter.