My Conjoined Kids HATE Me! — The True Cost of a Mother’s “Shortcut”

If I’d Known How Ungrateful My Daughters Would Be, I Never Would Have Had Them Surgically Attached…

That’s how the story begins — with a confession so raw and bitter, it feels like a slap. I thought I was clever, thought I’d scored a two-for-one deal on motherhood, but now every day is a battle for survival, for sanity, for the bare minimum of respect.

Being a good mother is hard enough. But being a good mother to two conjoined daughters? It’s a full-time job with no breaks, no thanks, and no appreciation. Even the simplest things — like going to the bathroom — become a circus act. “Go pee,” I tell them. “Being so close to your sister isn’t that bad. At least you’ve got a witness to everything she does.” But they just roll their eyes, feed themselves, and complain that I’m overbearing.

“No, shut up, darling,” I snap. “This is what good moms do.” I thought I’d hit the jackpot: two disabled kids for the price of one. But at the movies, they still charge me for two seats. “Are you kidding me?” I argue with the ticket clerk. “They only have one ass!”
But rules are rules. “Ma’am, you still need to buy two tickets.”
“My kid is one kid!”
“Well, I recognize her face, so the other one’s under there somewhere.”
Ableism, bureaucracy, and public humiliation — that’s the world we live in.

The Circus of Everyday Life

Everywhere we go, people stare. Some whisper, some point, some act like we’re a sideshow. “Do a trick!” some old man jeers. “Can they feel it if you smack one?”
I want to scream. I want to smash their skulls together.
But mostly, I just want a normal life.
Instead, I’m left explaining, defending, and bargaining for basic dignity.

They make it hard to keep a job. “Treat my kids like everyone else,” I demand at the grocery store, the office, the school. But the world doesn’t care.
“We could have been like everyone else,” they say. “But you made us like this.”
Not in front of the white folks, I whisper, desperate to keep the peace.

“Be honest, Mom,” they ask one night. “Why did you sew us together?”
I hesitate. I didn’t think it through. I knew a guy who could do it for cheap. That’s all.
“It was a good deal,” I say, half-joking, half-ashamed.
They don’t laugh.
They don’t understand.
And maybe, neither do I.

A House Divided

Some days, I have to put stickers on their foreheads just to remember which one pissed me off. I don’t want to hit the wrong one, but I always do.
“I’m sorry, baby. I meant to strike the other one.”
“You’re a bad mom,” they say, switching places just to mess with me.
“We never switch,” they protest.
But I know. I always know.

People stare.
“Stop staring at my kids. They’re normal!” I shout at a blind man.
“Madam, I am blind,” he replies.
Yeah, well, you’re thinking it, I mutter.

They’re my cash cow, my circus act, my burden and my blessing.
“Film this,” I say to the gawkers. “Step right up and watch my daughter bring this mysterious dummy to life.”
“Help! Our mother is abusing us!” they cry, ventriloquist-style.
Which one didn’t flush the toilet?
Which one left their homework unfinished?
I can’t tell.
I don’t want to know.

The Struggle for Normalcy

I just wanted a normal life for my kids. But everywhere we go, we’re a spectacle.
“Hey, you got a poop bag for that thing?” someone asks.
“It’s embarrassing,” I admit.
“Why do we both need to be on leashes?”
“Because I’m a fair mother,” I reply, half-serious, half-mad.

They argue.
“I should have been the dummy.”
“Well, you’re already acting like one.”

Every day is a negotiation, a battle, a comedy of errors.
Are they ventriloquists or victims?
Are they my children or my captives?
Are we a family or a freak show?

The Unspoken Truth

Behind the jokes and the shouting, there is pain.
There is guilt.
There is longing for something normal, something easy, something kind.

I did it for the deal.
I did it for the discount.
I did it because I thought it would be easier.

But it wasn’t.
It never is.

Conclusion: Two Become One

In the end, we are what we are.
Two daughters, sewn together by circumstance, by desperation, by a mother’s misguided love.
We fight, we laugh, we cry, we survive.
And every day, I wonder:
Did I do the right thing?
Would I do it again?

They hate me.
But they are mine.
And in this strange, broken family, two have become one — whether we like it or not.

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