If my mother read this, she’d probably say she loved me.

She might feel hurt. Dismissed.
She’d say, “Of course I loved you.”

But I can’t think of a single consistent memory where I actually felt loved by her.
Not in the way a child needs. Not with warmth. Not with safety. Not with presence.

And it’s not just her.
My sister too. The coldness, the emotional distance, the way I was treated — like a burden, like something to keep at arm’s length.

And for years, I tried to rationalise it all.
I thought:

Maybe I just don’t understand how they show love.
Maybe I’m the problem.
Maybe I’m too sensitive.
Maybe they’re broken, but deep down they care.

Because the alternative — the idea that it wasn’t love at all — felt impossible to bear.

But what if it wasn’t love?
What if it was duty, performance, control?
What if their version of love came without empathy — without the capacity to see me, hold me, or meet me emotionally?

What if I’ve been trying to turn absence into affection this whole time?

And what if, finally, I don’t have to do that anymore?

I don’t need to demonise them. I’m not here to rewrite history with rage.
But I am here to stop lying to myself.
Because defending them means betraying the child in me who knows the difference.

That part of me — the boy who waited for love that never came — doesn’t need more excuses.

He needs truth. He needs space. He needs to be believed.

So maybe I’ll never get an apology.
Maybe they’ll go on believing they loved me all along.
But I know how it felt.
And I’m finally allowed to trust that.

What if that wasn’t love?

And what if that’s exactly where real healing begins?