…for the chemical cleaning of industrial equipment! It’s corrosive! Is your skin red and irritated? Does it sting?!”
I felt my knees go weak. I looked at the piece of “soap” in his hand — gray, hard, with a pungent smell that I had ignored so many times, thinking it was supposed to be that way.
“But… dad told me… it’s a special soap for my smells…” I murmured, as my throat tightened.
“Dear, this is not negligence. It’s… it’s something much more serious,” he said, pulling me toward the couch. He gently touched my arms — they were covered in irritations that I had hidden with long sleeves. My skin burned from every shower, but I thought, “that’s how it should feel when you clean dirt.”
I started to tremble. The question that had been nagging at me for weeks now took a clear form: why did it seem like my father hated me?
Why didn’t my mother, the woman who had protected me throughout my childhood, intervene?
That evening, my boyfriend took the piece of substance and searched for it online by the code scribbled on the edge. The confirmation was staggering: it was an industrial detergent used in auto parts cleaners — meant for objects, not people.
I felt a knot in my stomach. I went straight to my mother, trembling, with my hands covered in visible marks. I put the product in front of her and asked, “Did you know what this is?”
Her expression darkened. She sighed, and for the first time in my life, she didn’t play the protective mother role. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I knew. But I didn’t know how to stop it all. And… I didn’t have the courage.”
“Stop what, mom? What is this? What was all this theater?!”
She closed her eyes and burst into tears. “Your father… never wanted you. He wanted a boy. And when you grew up and started to look like me, he began to despise you. He told me he would ‘clean all the dirt out of you.’ I thought he was exaggerating. But when I saw what he gave you… I was about to leave. I had nowhere to go. I was trapped.”
I couldn’t respond. Tears streamed down my face in silence. I got up. I went to my room and started packing. My boyfriend followed me, took my hands in his, and said, “You’re not going back there. Ever.”
That night, I left. I took only a few clothes, my laptop, and my phone. In the following days, I went to the hospital. The diagnosis? Severe chemical dermatitis. I had to undergo treatment for months.
But the true healing came later, when I understood a hard truth: not all parents love their children. Not all people who raise you deserve a place in your life.
Today, I live with my boyfriend in a bright apartment, where showers don’t hurt. Where I am asked if I’m okay, not scolded for “smelling bad.” And in the bathroom, on the shelf, there is only one thing: a simple, natural soap with a lavender scent — which I chose myself.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or for how characters are portrayed and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
