Like most, I always believed my mother loved me. She fed me. Kept me warm. She wiped away my tears and took care of me when I was sick. She was my mother and I loved her unconditionally. But one day I discovered the terrible truth.
She does not love me now and she never has. Not only that; she was trying to kill me. Every day. In a thousand ways, sometimes subtle, sometimes overt, she was trying to kill me. And, she had conscripted all the forces at her command — for she is nothing if not awesomely powerful, I'll give her that — to off me. And she didn't much care how. A horrible, painful or humiliating death would suit her just fine.
Worse, my own cousins, admittedly mostly distant cousins, were her preferred agents. Though mishap would do in a pinch, biological, chemical and nuclear weapons were not beyond her purely immoral and inhuman lust for blood.
My days are numbered. I know it. She knows it. And she has all the time in the world.