A true story

Being Grateful to People Who Have Wronged Us Badly

Gratitude is not only meant for those who are good to us

Mother ducks are admirable. Single-handedly, they look after and care for their ducklings after brooding or sitting on the eggs for 28 days until they hatch. But would it be fair to compare this bird to human mothers who are not as devoted to their children like in this, my true story?

I am big on gratitude. Big in my heart. Big in my mind. I don’t forget, ever, even the little things done for me, given to me, shared with me.

But I am, perhaps, more grateful to people who have hurt me, harmed me; people whose actions and attitudes are aimed at feeding their ego, nurturing their selfishness, or being just who they are, a horrible person.

A great illustration — if I may call this example exemplary — is what a mother did to her eight children. The eldest was 13 years old, the youngest less than a year old.

Six sisters and two brothers abandoned by a mother who ran away with a younger man.

As fate would have it, this mother — my mother, actually — returned to us, her children, when we were young adults. She needed us. Her life had fallen apart mainly due to her being reckless and unfaithful.

By that time, all eight of us were managing our lives as best we could. Maybe not yet very stable but my siblings and I were getting there. Hard work did not faze me and my siblings. And dedication to building a good, stable family life was our goal, which we all achieved.