I don't remember much about his conception or the pregnancy, except that my mom beat me before kicking me out when I finally told her. I was hoping it would have caused me to miscarry. But he just kept growing.

The birth was something I hope I never have to experience again. I couldn't afford an epidural. Piece of shit tore the wall between my vagina and asshole. Which costed more money to get fixed anyways. But I'm grateful that he at least stopped crying pretty quickly, and when the nurses put him in my arms for the first time he smiled at me even though I never smiled back.

I'm glad I've forgotten a lot of things. It wasn't really interesting. He grew up in daycare, while I finished growing up on the sales floor. It was a relief when he started school. He didn't whine about the older kids bullying him as much, and it costed me less.

It seemed like he always kind of knew. It's not like I ever hit him more than a handful of times, and—unlike my own mom—I at least felt bad about it. Apologized, hugged him, etcetera. But despite my mistakes, he clung to me a lot, and I would get calls from teachers during work about how he wouldn't stop crying and sniffling over wanting to be with me. He was troublesome and grabbed and hit me when I tried to leave for work, but every time I picked him up from daycare he always smiled and told me how much he missed me.

Out of pity, I would tell him that I missed him too.

It was just a routine. The way I drove us back home, cooked dinner, asked him about his day at school. I didn't do much beyond that. Maybe he turned out the way he did because of me. Maybe it's because I don't think I really loved him as much as I should have.

Maybe this is what I get, because I couldn't give him the universe like he deserved. Like all children deserve. Even though the universe thought I was an exception.

Some stupid fucking thing formed the day my dad stuck his cock into my mom, and then—bam—there I was. He never really looked me in the face when he talked to me or my mom, and my mom liked to make that my problem. I think I could've made a better wife for him than her, though. Maybe she could tell, and maybe she was jealous, because she liked to make me feel as if nobody could ever love a child like me.

Being a kid sucked, and, of course, I eventually had to grow into a useless teenager. Classic "daddy issues" symptom of sleeping with any guy who would have me. Bonus points if they were older. I don't want to know how stupid I must have been to get a baby raped into me.

And I don't want to hear the universe laughing when it watches my son try to do the same to me.

I think I just hoped that he would eventually stop on his own until he grew old enough, and then I could—I don't know—encourage him to find a nice girl and move out. Though, at this point I don't think that'll be happening.

He's a senior in high school now, and his footsteps through the house are louder than any of the guys' I've dated. He's tall and takes advantage of it, is what I mean. My entire family was short, so he probably got it from elsewhere.

It started a few years ago when I noticed one day he was looking down at me, and he smiled in a way I hadn't seen since he was little.

It made me nervous, but as his mom I had to smile back anyways.

It was bad timing that he caught me drinking later that night. I never wanted to be a bad influence or anything so I was usually good at holing myself up in my room, pretending to be asleep, but I fucked up and forgot to lock the door.

Basically, I was very drunk and trying to play Candy Crush on my phone. He realized quickly that there wasn't much I could do, and that he could touch me in places he shouldn't. Not much more happened after I smacked him with the empty bottle of vodka, but he didn't seem hurt by it.

Since. Uh. He kept trying almost every night after.

I never told him it was okay, and maybe I should have punished him more harshly, but no matter what I said to him, or how hard I tried to follow Internet advice about "setting boundaries," he never listened.

I remembered to lock from that night forward, but it was one of those shitty house locks. Easy to pick. Later I bought proper locking door handles, but he somehow made it past those too.

Did I try enough? Not enough? I don't know. Maybe it's my fault because I never stopped drinking.

A year later he finally did it.

It's kind of funny if you think about it. My rape baby is now the one raping me. Ha ha. He's just like his father, whoever he was.

He likes it when I drink. He knows I can't stop. I've even tried leaving the house to do it, but he would always somehow find me.

Though, if he didn't I probably would be dead somewhere in a ditch or pulverized between the frame of my car. But my punishment for needing to be picked up by him is being dragged home and bent over on his bed.

He always tells me that he loves me. A part of me thinks that if I just say it back, maybe he'll stop. But something else tells me that it'll only get worse.

I shouldn't let a kid have his way with me, but I've always been weak, even for a girl. He picks me up like it's nothing, and if I struggle he just laughs. He's always saying embarrassing things, like pointing out my stretch marks and—

He found out about my scars too. The ones on my thighs. I always hated how skinny and weird my legs were back when I was a teenager, and they're a bit better now after my pregnancy, but the scars are still there.

One day he barged into my room, beaming, with only his t-shirt and boxer briefs, saying, "Mom, look. I'm just like you now," with his thighs covered in blood.

I just don't know what to do with him.

It doesn't help that he's been getting more clingy, especially in public. Which I'm not surprised about, since over the years he's always hated the men I've dated. Even as a kid I'd have to grab the scruff of his shirt to keep him from hitting or biting any guy that talked to me.

I suppose kids just love their parents. I did too. Or at least one of them, even if he didn't deserve it.

Maybe it's genetic or something—that weird feeling. And maybe my son is just more stupid than me, so he can't help himself.

I know he loves me, and I guess I've wasted my life on him already, so maybe it's fine—the way things are. He works out a little in his room every night, and his hugs have gotten tighter. I guess it does feel kind of nice. I wonder if he does that for me, since there are a lot of things he does for me.

I panic easily, especially around other people, but nobody can really tell. I've gotten good at hiding it. But somehow he always knows.

It was really bad once, but he took my hand and led me back to the passenger seat of the car while he drove. Usually he'd be telling me about the cartoons he likes to watch, like which character died or something, but that time he was quiet the entire way home.

He took me into his room, sat me on his bed, and his skin brushed against mine as he took my jewelry and glasses off before he laid me against his sheets. And then I just broke down.

I probably looked ugly crying like that, but he kissed me on the lips anyways.

Every waking moment I wish I could start over again. Live with a mom and dad that loved me, start high school again and leave with just one good memory, then graduate from college and be held by someone who could never even imagine hurting me. Someone who thinks I'm pretty.

It always felt like the universe was mocking me, but during nights like that one I wonder who really put him on this Earth. Because I don't feel like I deserve any of this.

He holds me like he knows, and he holds me like he forgives me for not being able to forgive him.

He nuzzles into my hair when he's pressed down against me, and I feel guilty for melting into him when he whispers in my ear, telling me that I'm his favorite girl in the whole world.

He knows something in my chest twists when I'm called a woman, so he says other words around me and talks to me differently.

Lately he's been wearing a huge grin on his face, spinning me around the house, exclaiming how he's going to get me to marry him someday. That nothing can stop him, that he'll find a way, because he loves me.

I realize now that I've never told him "I love you too," but I hope the smile on my face when he held my hand said enough. And with the way he looked at me, I think it did.