At my sister’s wedding reception, my mother stood up and told all 200 guests, “At least she wasn’t a complete failure like my other daughter. Even her birth ruined my life and destroyed my dreams.”

My name is Maya.

I was thirty years old that summer, a senior software engineer with a good salary, a house I had bought myself, and a life I had built out of sheer stubbornness.

From the outside, I looked successful.

Stable.

Unbothered.

But success does not magically erase what people did to you in childhood.