Frances Dew

The Memories I Couldn’t Keep
by Frances Dew

An eldest daughter with both mommy and daddy issues may possibly experience memory loss, or some memories may be a bit blurry. And as an eldest daughter who has recently moved out and cut off her family, I can testify to this.

Most of my childhood memories of my mom or dad, or even both, seem to be unclear, blurry, and incomplete. No matter how hard I try to remember, I don't seem to know what happens next. It's like a puzzle that has been missing a piece. From my early childhood up until high school, my memory is dull like I'm an old person. It's like I have dementia or Alzheimer's.

Every time my friends share a memory about us in high school, I immediately feel out of place, not because they don't have a fond memory of me but because I have no idea what they are talking about. I don't remember everything about it. There are some memories that stick and remain clear, and those are either embarrassing moments or traumatic experiences.

I talked to my friend earlier today, and there was a realization. I can still clearly hear the voice of my mom saying "You are a hard loser." She told me not to cry whenever I fail or lose in a game because I used to be an athlete. I used to compete. And she said it is not what champions do—to cry when they lose or fail. And she said that's what losers and quitters do. So that stuck with me.

Then I shared with my friend a story from when I was in sixth grade—when I joined a pageant and was completely embarrassed. That's why I can still vividly remember it. My mom was the one who pushed me to join this pageant. And when I was dropped from the Top 10, or when I wasn't picked to move on to the Top 5, she said something along the lines that the competition was biased, that the competition was totally sabotaged. That I was supposed to be in the Top 5 and that I deserve to be there.

She’s always like this. She would blame others if she didn’t get what she wanted—she’d blame the weather, the equipment, or a person. Not just that, she’s a very superstitious person. She has her own rituals to do before and after a competition, or something else, for good luck, I suppose.

I never really cared whether I won or lost the game, but whenever I lost, there was always a sense of panic and fear because I knew my mother would blame either me or something else. And ever since then, I started thinking that maybe I was really a sore loser, that I never took losing in a good way, that I always saw it as weakness.

I remember that when I lost or failed, I would get angry, upset, and guilty. That’s why I never skipped a training day, never complained. I always made sure I was prepared and that I had everything I needed to win. I sometimes reflect it onto others. When they lose, I would tell them that they didn’t do it well, or that they were simply not good that’s why they failed. Looking back now, it gives me an ick. I feel horrible thinking about how I reacted and how I acted.

And then I realized: I wasn't the sore loser after all. I was just simply a child listening to her mother's advice—I was just a normal child, feeling genuinely disappointed, upset, or down after failing or losing a game. It wasn't me. There was nothing wrong with me. She was the hard loser from the start.
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Note: I do not own the artwork in this piece. Credit to the rightful artist.

The Cost of My Own Joy
by Frances Dew

I was never competing with you. I was just begging for you to look at me—really look at me. A little validation, a little appreciation… that’s all I ever needed. But you couldn’t give me even that. You were too selfish, too threatened by my independence. You mocked my small wins, my tiny sparks of happiness, as if tearing them down would somehow keep me in place.

You were hurt because you never bought these things for me when I was young. You always said it was because we didn’t have money—and I don’t blame you for that. But did it ever cross your mind that buying these small things now is my way of healing? That each little purchase fills a void I’ve carried for years, bringing a bit of light into the darkness I grew up with?

How could you be so cruel?

People will say I’m ungrateful, that I’m spoiled. But they didn’t hear the way you mocked me. They didn’t feel the gaslighting, the discouragement, the way you made me feel small with every snarky comment you disguised as “concern.”

And tell me—how bad was I for buying something for myself? Was it a sin to finally give myself the things I once only dreamed of? Why did it bother you so much to see me happy in ways you never allowed me to be?

Why did a simple treat, a small reward, a tiny piece of joy become something you had to criticize? Why did my healing look like arrogance to you? Why did my self-care feel like an attack?

I wasn’t trying to show off. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I was trying to patch the holes you left in me. I was trying to give myself the gentleness I never got. I was trying to feel, even for a moment, what it’s like to not live in scarcity—emotionally, mentally, and yes, even materially.

You called it unnecessary. You called it wasteful. You made me feel guilty for wanting anything at all.
But you never understood that to me, these small things weren’t about the object—they were about the child inside me who never had the chance.

So tell me again… what exactly did I do wrong?
What crime did I commit by choosing myself for once?

Because if buying something that makes me feel whole is wrong in your eyes, then maybe the real problem was never the purchase—it was that I finally stopped waiting for you to care.

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Note: I do not own the artwork in this piece. Credit to the rightful artist.

simply exist.