My name is Charlotte, I’m 17 years old, and I’m from London. I’ve kept this to myself for a long time, but now I’ve decided to share my story. Perhaps someone will see themselves in it. Maybe some will rethink their actions. Or maybe one mother will pause before betraying her daughter, like mine did.
My parents separated when I was ten. I wouldn’t say we were ever truly happy—there were always arguments, blame, and a chill between them, even when I didn’t fully understand. But after the divorce, things got worse. It seemed like my parents were competing for my attention—not out of love, but out of obligation. I was passed between homes like an unwanted bag. At Dad’s, it was cramped but calm. At Mum’s, it was roomier, but the tension got thicker every year.
Everything fell apart when a new man entered Mum’s life. His name was James. He was around 30, nearly a decade younger than Mum, and he acted like he owned the place, with me being the nuisance. Initially, he was polite, feigned interest in my well-being. But soon enough, his true colors showed. He disliked that I lived with Mum and hated that she spent money on me. He had no qualms saying Dad was irresponsible, that I was a burden, and that I should start fending for myself.
He manipulated Mum, drained her money, convinced her she didn’t need a teenage daughter, but rather freedom and self-care. And Mum… she listened. She didn’t notice my nights of crying. Or how I gathered my books quietly in the kitchen to stay out of their way. Or how I’d lock myself in the bathroom just to have a moment of peace.
The last straw was the night of yet another argument. The shouting was so loud it rattled the windows. I rushed out, determined to protect Mum, afraid he’d hit her. But it turned out differently. The fury in his eyes froze me. I shouted, “Enough! Don’t yell at her!” — and got hit instead. Hard, like an adult. He struck me across the face, and I fell, hitting the corner of the cabinet. Everything went blurry. I only remember Mum screaming and… then silence.
I thought he’d leave. I expected Mum to throw him out, to hold me close, call for a doctor, tell me she loved me. I waited for it, searching her eyes for comfort. But she just whispered, “You’ve ruined everything yourself.” An hour later, she said I should move in with Dad.
I packed in silence. It felt like my heart had been ripped out. I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. I just left, realizing I no longer had a home.
Now I’m living with Dad. He does his best, but we don’t have that closeness I longed for with Mum all my childhood. I no longer hope she’ll call to apologize or visit… Though deep down, I’m still a little girl wishing Mum would open the door and say, “I’m sorry, darling.” But that won’t happen. She chose him. She chose the man who hurt her child.
I hold no malice towards her. But I know this: one day, he’ll leave her. He’ll find someone younger, prettier, more agreeable. She’ll be alone then. Perhaps she’ll remember me. But by that time, I’ll no longer be the one who forgives all. Because a mother’s betrayal is a wound that never heals.
I say this to every parent: don’t have children if you’re not ready to put them above your romantic dramas. We, children, aren’t at fault for who you choose to love. We didn’t ask to be born. But if you choose to bring us into this world—don’t betray us.
Mum, if you ever read this… know this: I survived. I stood back up. I’m strong. But I’ll never come to you with tears again, like before. You’re not my mum anymore. You’re just a woman who once gave birth to me.
