When I was little, I was convinced my mother hated me. Between my two older brothers and me, I was positive I was the one she liked least. Even at a young age I could sense I was a disappointment, that I didn’t fit the stereotype of her dream daughter: sweet, demure, cooperative, loving. I was that at first, mind you. As a baby, I rarely cried or fussed. I had big blue eyes and wore smocked dresses and ruffled bloomers. It appeared that having me was worth it, I imagine she thought, despite the fact that she was separated from my father before I was even born.
“Daisy was a perfect baby,” my mother still says. “And then she turned three.” Keep reading »