A Bitter Memory with My Uncle —The Pain of Breaking Away from My Mother

When I was a child, my mother had to travel far, and my uncle came to stay with me.
He was blunt and intimidating—a man who scared me just by being there.

Back then, I was deeply attached to my mother.
Anything involving her felt sacred to me.
I told my uncle not to sleep in her futon, but he ignored me,
and the next morning, there he was, sleeping where I had begged him not to.

I snapped.
I said something I can’t even fully remember now.
And then—he hit me in the face.
I was shocked. Terrified. Hurt. And furious.

Looking back, that moment left a scar that never really faded.
But strangely, it also marked the beginning of me breaking away from that intense attachment.
It was bitter, painful… and formative.

I don’t know what became of my uncle.
I cut ties with my family long ago, and he had cancer.
He’s probably no longer in this world.

But if there is such a thing as an afterlife,
and if we were ever to meet again,
I’d probably say, “I’m sorry.”
Even though the bitterness still lingers—it’s part of me now.

I fell hard that day. But I didn’t stay down.

叔父との苦い思い出ーマザコン脱皮の痛み