What made me face the facts was the first time I experienced my mother's onset of illness.
She must have been provoked by something, and during her illness, she repeatedly yelled at me, "Monster, why don't you just die."
I will never forget the hate-filled look in her eyes.
She hated me!
I was certain it was hatred, definitely not resentment.
How could a mother hate her own son? Why?
Either the son is not hers by birth, or the son is not the child she had hoped to give birth to.
I resembled her, so the first possibility was ruled out.
So that left only one -- I was not the child she had hoped to give birth to.
She loved my father so much, so why did she not look forward to my birth?
Could it be because my father did not give her a legitimate status? Making me carry the reputation of a bastard, and her the reputation of a concubine?
No, that's not right.
My father was truly good to me; I could see it in his eyes,
