I grew up under the impression that my father held me responsible for my mother’s death, but the reality was far more tragic.

I never met my mother, and my father never mentioned her. All I knew was that she had been stunning, thanks to the photograph in his study, and that she had passed away when she was young.

My father was a somber man, quiet and distant. I longed for his attention and affection, but he remained aloof. His words to me were limited to the bare essentials—hellos, goodbyes, good mornings, and good nights. I would have done anything for him to sweep me into his arms and tell me he loved me.

This strange and strained dynamic with my father persisted until I was 18. By then, I had become a sad, lonely young woman who believed my father despised me. If he didn’t love me, who would?

The answer to my questions came in the harshest and most painful way imaginable. My father hosted a party for his business associates, and among the guests was a woman I knew slightly.

“If you don’t leave the past behind, you deny yourself a future”

I suspected that she and my father shared some history—or at least she wished they did. She greeted me, and we began a casual conversation about nothing significant. Then my father walked by. I gave him my brightest smile, but he immediately looked away. The woman noticed.

“Do you know why?” she asked.

“Why what?” I asked, puzzled.

“Why he hates you,” she said.

“My father doesn’t hate me!” I protested. “He’s just not very demonstrative.”

“So you don’t know…” she smirked. It was the ugliest smile I’d ever seen. I was about to leave when she said, “He believes you killed your mother, Karen.”

I froze. “What?” I gasped.

“Your mother died giving birth to you; surely you know that?” she added.

“No, I didn’t know…”

I turned away from her and went to find my grandmother, my father’s mother, who had raised me without ever telling me about my mother’s death.