Back in the 70s and 80s, life wasn't easy for many families, including mine. My father left, and my mother was suddenly left to raise three children on her own. She had never been to school, couldn't read or write, yet worked night shifts to provide for us.
Ours was a small 33-square-metre government rental flat. The bedroom, living room and kitchen shared the same open space. Only the main entrance and the toilet had doors. It wasn't much, but to many families during that time, it was simply home.
Growing up, I did not understand the burdens my mother carried. I only knew that whenever something went wrong, I was often the one who received her anger.
One evening, when I was about six years old, my older brother took me downstairs to play. Like many neighbourhood children, he joined a few others in taking eggs from a delivery van parked nearby. I was too young to understand what they were doing. I simply followed my brother.
The supplier caught us, and the matter was settled between the adults. Apologies were made and compensation was paid. For everyone else, the incident ended there.
For me, the memory stayed.
That evening, my mother was overwhelmed with anger and shame after being told that her children were accused of stealing. After the anger, the slaps and the painful pinches, she wrapped a towel around my neck and pulled until I lost consciousness.
The next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital.
After the police gave her a stern warning, life slowly returned to normal, or at least what had become normal for us. That was not the only painful memory from my childhood. There were many others.
For years, I never questioned what had happened. I simply believed that I must have done something to deserve it. If I had been a better daughter, if I had made fewer mistakes, perhaps things would have been different. It never occurred to me that a little girl could simply be innocent.
As I grew older, I began to understand more about how childhood experiences can shape the way we see ourselves. The things we hear, the things we experience and the things we quietly accept as truth can stay with us for a very long time. For many years, I carried the belief that I was the problem.
Through God's grace, that belief slowly began to change. I started to understand something I had never truly believed before: it wasn't my fault.
The pain was real. The fear was real. What happened was real. But the blame I had carried for so many years did not belong to me.
For a long time, I could not understand why I never hated my mother. I knew I had been hurt, yet somehow compassion always found its way back into my heart. I do not believe that was something I achieved on my own. I believe God was protecting a part of my heart long before I recognised His presence.
That understanding did not make me love my mother less. It simply allowed me to see more of the whole picture. She was also a person carrying her own pain, limitations and burdens that she never learned how to release.
Seeing her struggles does not erase what happened to me. Both things can exist together. I was hurt, and she was hurting.
For a long time, I saw that little girl only as someone who was blamed, punished and afraid. Slowly, that picture has changed. I can see that she was simply a child trying her best, carrying a burden she was far too young to understand.
The blame was never hers.
I am still learning to believe that, not only with my mind, but also with my heart.