Some of us didn’t grow up with lullabies and bedtime stories.Some of us were introduced to fear before we could even form full sentences. My earliest memory isn’t a holiday or a warm hug—it’s watching my father try to drown my mother in a bathtub. I remember her fighting to breathe, and me—only four years…
She knew about me. She knew I was pregnant. And still, she chose to compete for a man who was abandoning his own family. This letter is for her — and for every woman who’s had to heal while someone else played house with the man who broke her.
The “bitter baby mama” label isn’t about bitterness — it’s about survival. This post uncovers the truth behind the label, challenges the toxic narratives society expects mothers to accept, and reminds women that setting boundaries to protect themselves and their children is not a flaw — it’s an act of love.