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A true story
Being Grateful to People Who Have Wronged Us Badly
Gratitude is not only meant for those who are good to us
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.
But this mother whom each of my siblings and I are taking care of, living with any of us as she pleases, continues with her unpleasant attitude.
She is so divisive, always creating discord and sowing misunderstanding between and amongst her children.
She is quite inventive at this that I harboured untold pain in my heart, for many years, because of what my sister allegedly said.
This sister, to whom I entrusted the care of my children when I lived and worked overseas, supposedly complained incessantly, according to our mother; that looking after my children was like hell.
It turned out that it was not true.
It turned out that Mother had been concocting untruths not only between me and my favoured sibling, but also between my other sisters and brothers.
Imagine the grudges that festered in our hearts…
