I felt different then. The niggling doubt that reared its head was 'rejection'. How awful must I be that my own mother didn't want me. What kind of person did that make me? What kind of person did that make her?
I'm not entirely sure that I have ever, or will ever, rid myself of the feelings of inadequacy that have haunted me ever since. The feeling that, no matter what I do, I will ever be good enough.