Dear My Children,

I grew up in a family where it was very hard to express emotions or show care. As a child, I constantly saw my parents and relatives fighting. I was bullied in grade school but never told my family. On graduation day, everyone was happy except me, yet I still smiled because they were proud.

In high school, I finally found people who made me feel safe. But at home, things were strict-I couldn't go out, and I had to handle my problems alone. I grew up feeling blamed, as if my existence was a burden because I was adopted and couldn't give anything back.

In college, longing to feel loved, I got pregnant at 17. It became the start of another trauma. I tried to continue my studies while co-parenting, but it was difficult because my family didn't accept the father. I had no money, no support, and felt everything was my fault. When my first child was born, I found out her father had another woman. I cried at night while caring for my baby and went to school in the morning. I carried everything alone.

I worked while finishing college, saving whatever I could for my child. No one knew what I was going through. Later, I had the opportunity to work abroad and had to leave my child behind. It broke me because all I wanted was to be with my children.

I fell in love again, got pregnant, and then discovered the father was married. Another heartbreak. At the same time, I got seriously ill with kidney stones and lost my job. I went home with nothing-no savings, because everything I earned was sent to my family.

After giving birth to my second child, I went back to work just two weeks later. I raised both my children alone and kept sending money to support my family. I tried to stay strong and not become a burden.

I worked in different countries. In Libya, I experienced civil war-gunfire and bombings every night. My boss was a sexual abuser. I wasn't a victim, but living and working under that fear was already too much. Still, I stayed because my children needed me.

In Saudi Arabia, I faced another abusive boss who shouted at me and threw things. I endured it for my children. I became depressed and anxious, but I never told anyone. My family and children had no idea.

As a mother, I felt I had no right to share my burdens. But when I came home, my eldest wasn't close to me. She relied more on her grandmother and aunt. I understood, because she grew up without me, but I kept trying to reach out and support them in every way I could.

Now my eldest is in college, and my second child is in grade 9. I give them everything I can-education, things they need, and more-despite my struggles.

Then one day, I simply asked why they had school during Holy Week. They misunderstood it as me not wanting to give allowance. It escalated, and my eldest said, "You are no better than our fathers."

After everything I've been through... that broke me.