I Wish I Had Never Been Born...

Have you ever wished that you were never born?

My mother—though I no longer even call her "mother"—was the "other woman." According to my grandmother, from a young age, my mom was lazy, only cared about her appearance, and dreamed of marrying a rich man thanks to her youthful beauty.

At 20, she left home to work at a bar owned by my uncle in the city. There, she met the man who, biologically, is my father. But I’ve never once considered him my dad. He was a contractor, moving from province to province for work. Handsome, wealthy—under my mother’s eyes, he was the perfect prey.

At the time, he had been separated from his wife for a while, maybe feeling lonely. Under my mother’s seduction, he fell. Perhaps no man can resist a woman who is deliberately trying to lure him in. But it didn’t last long. As soon as she was pregnant with me, he came to his senses and wanted to break it off, return to his wife, and cut all contact—despite my mother's pleading and threats.

But my mother wouldn’t stop. After giving birth to me, she tracked down his address and showed up at their home, publicly demanding that he “take responsibility” for me. But I knew it wasn’t for me—it was for the money. His wife, pregnant at the time, probably still very early in her term, was so shocked that she had a miscarriage. That alone says everything about the disaster my mother caused. He resented her—and probably me as well. Because if it weren’t for me, his wife wouldn’t have been hurt like that.

He refused to divorce. I knew why—he truly loved his wife and child. Even now, I can see that they are genuinely happy, not just on the surface.

But my mother took it even further. She moved to the same village, just to stir things up more. I don’t know what was discussed between them, but in the end, it was his wife—not him—who agreed to give my mother monthly support money to raise me. His family never acknowledged me, never once asked about the blood they left behind.

I remember vividly my early childhood—occasionally, I would be taken to a big house to "visit." After those visits, my mom would always buy me toys. I didn’t understand then, but now I know: she went to beg for money.

My mother never changed. Whenever she had money, she spent it on makeup, clothes, gambling, or men—leaving me without even enough to pay school fees.

I grew up on the scraps and food my grandmother secretly gave me. I had no love, no guidance. My father never once reached out. My mother didn’t care. I carried the label “child of a mistress,” a product of an affair—unwanted by anyone.

I can't count the number of times I cried after being mocked by friends, by people around me. But they weren’t wrong—I had nothing to say in return.

Every child should have the right to be loved by both parents. But my mother—out of her greed and selfishness—took that right away from me.

When I went to Hanoi for college, I studied and worked part-time to support myself. That monthly support money? Gone before it left the village—lost to her betting and debts. Sometimes when I visited home, I even had to pay off her gambling debts.

But somehow, I made it through four years, graduated with honors, and landed a decent job that allowed me to stay in Hanoi. I hate my hometown. I hate my mother. I don’t want to go back. It’s like a cursed memory I never want to relive. I told myself I'd have a better life here.

But maybe my mother’s karma is too heavy—and now I’m the one paying the price.

Two years after graduation, I had a boyfriend. He was kind. I loved him deeply. We were thinking about marriage, maybe even already building our small happy family—until his family found out about my background.

I don’t blame him. Choosing between your family and your lover is an impossible choice. He chose his family. That’s not a crime. But the day he left, it felt like the sky collapsed on me. There was no one left to carry this life with me anymore. I had nothing left to lose.

I hate my mother. She made the first half of my life miserable with the label “bastard,” and now, because of that same label, I can’t even have my own family.

Who would ever accept a girl born from an affair? The daughter of the woman who destroyed someone else’s marriage? Whose very existence caused another woman to lose her baby?

I wish—so deeply—that I had never been born. I wish I could’ve been reborn into another family. Why did I have to come into this world just to live a life so full of pain and shame?

Sometimes I wonder who to hate—him, her, or myself—for choosing to enter her womb and become her pawn.

To the young girls out there—if you're thinking about breaking up someone else’s family for your own gain, please stop and think. Think about the child that might come from that. Some mistakes can be corrected, but this one will stay forever. That child will carry the shame for a lifetime. A child like that… don’t you think they deserve better?