I was thirty-four years old when my own mother looked me straight in the eye and told me she wished I had never been born.

It was Mother’s Day.

I had paid for the entire brunch at The Garden Room in Cincinnati, Ohio.

The table looked beautiful.

Fresh pink roses sat in a small crystal vase.

There were carefully wrapped gifts, a porcelain teapot, and a cheesecake nobody had touched.

My mother, Dorothy Palmer, sat across from me with her arms folded tightly across her chest.

My older brother Gregory stared down at his plate like it held the answer to some great mystery.

His wife Megan twisted her linen napkin between her fingers and refused to meet my eyes.

My husband David reached under the table and gently squeezed my hand.

He knew how hard I had worked to make this day special.

I had made the reservation three weeks in advance.

I had ordered the flowers.

I had paid for the most expensive brunch on the menu because I wanted my mother to feel loved.

And then she said it.

“I wish you’d never been my daughter.”

Her voice was calm.

That was the worst part.

She did not shout it.

She did not say it in the heat of an argument.

She said it slowly and clearly, like she had been waiting years to let the words escape.

I remember the clink of silverware against porcelain.

I remember the soft hum of the restaurant.

I remember the way the sunlight fell across the white tablecloth.