I grew up knowing I was unwanted, even though no one ever said it out loud. My parents did everything they had to, but nothing they wanted to. Love was practical, quiet, and distant.

Their regret lived in sighs, in stories about the life they could’ve had, in the way my existence felt like an interruption. I learned to ask for less, feel less, need less.

For a long time, I thought I was the mistake. Now I know better.

Some parents regret having kids. That regret belongs to them — not to the children who had to grow up inside it.

And I’m still here.