My worst fear is my children.

I bet you are now picturing those creepy kids who appear in those horror movies, where they mostly end up murdering their parents in the cruelest way possible. But I assure you, my children aren't like that. Not at all. On the contrary, they are the nicest kids you'll ever get to meet. In them you can't help but see the true meaning of innocence and purity.

So where's the problem, lady, I could hear you asking. Well, the problem started around two years ago, when my then-husband abandoned me and my two infants. I can't begin to describe how devastating the whole thing was. It shattered me into pieces, and what made it worse was that my children were too young to understand.

But in the midst of this mess, a friend was generous enough to offer me a job, and I wasted no time in accepting it. Because deep inside, I knew that we had to survive, and the only way to do that was to move on. I had to move on, and I did move on, despite my disappointment, my fear, and the hatred that never ceased to burn in my heart. It took me a great deal of effort, I have to admit, but it was totally worth it. I sought refuge in work, and when I got home I sought it in the presence of my kids, and when my kids fell asleep, I was surprised to find it in books as well. Gradually things became better and I felt happiness illuminate my life again. I believed I was finally healing, and I kept thinking so until last month.

It was my oldest child's first day of school, and I'd returned home after a long, exhausting shift at work. After dinner, I had to listen to a prolonged account of how his day was. He told me everything in painful details, from the moment he stepped foot on to the bus in the morning, to the moment he was welcomed back home by the babysitter at the end of the day. I fell into a trance, but it wasn't due to boredom or lack of interest; I was just too busy watching with fondness the excitement that glimmered in his eyes.

Then he said a word and it was sufficient to drag me back into the world. One word was able to ignite the old flames which I thought had been quenched. I heard him say, "dad."

Apparently he was telling me about how somebody's dad came to pick up his son at school. And then he asked me the question I feard most.

"Where is my dad?"

To be honest, I had known that moment would have to come someday. However, I had yet to know how to deal with it. I should have remained calm, made up any answer to satisfy the little boy's curiosity without shocking him with the bitter truth, but instead, I was nothing but a fool. Because, you know, only fools let their anger conquer. I told him through gritted teeth that I didn't wish to speak any further. I got up to my feet and told him and his sister to go to bed. And as any sane person would have expected, this only increased his determination to get an answer. He kept repeating the question over and over again, and I stood still for some time, petrified with fury, and the next thing I heard was a loud noise and a cry of pain that seemed like a knife piercing my heart. I had slapped my child's face with all my might.

Now I can no longer stand looking at his or his sister's eyes, since the last time I did so I saw nothing in them but horror. My kids were scared of me when I'm supposed to be their main source of comfort. Even worse, they seem to have forgiven me after all. Can you imagine? They forgave me! And I don't want them to. Because no matter what, I'll never forgive myself. How much I wish I'd been dead before my filthy hand touched this angel's face.