My name is Abigail, and I’m 17 years old, originally from London. I’ve stayed silent for a while, processing everything within, but now I’ve decided to share my story. Maybe someone will find a part of themselves in it, maybe someone will rethink their actions, or perhaps, at least one mother will think twice before betraying her own daughter, as my mother did.
My parents divorced when I was ten. It wasn’t like we were a happy family before that—arguments, accusations, and the cold distance between them were palpable, even when I didn’t fully understand it. But after the divorce, everything got worse. It felt like my parents were competing over who needed me more—not out of love, but out of a sense of obligation. I was bounced back and forth between houses like a suitcase without a handle. My dad’s place felt cramped, but at least it was peaceful. My mum’s was more spacious, but with each passing year, the tension became stifling.
Everything fell apart when a new man entered my mum’s life. His name was Charles. He was around thirty, nearly a decade younger than my mum, and immediately acted as if he ran the household, and I was in the way. Initially, he smiled politely, pretending to care about me. But his mask quickly slipped. He disliked that I was living with my mum and resented that she spent money on me. He didn’t hesitate to voice that my dad was irresponsible, that I was a burden, and that it was high time I learned to stand on my own two feet.
Charles manipulated my mum, drained her finances, and convinced her she didn’t need a teenage daughter, but rather freedom and self-care. And my mum… she listened to him. It was like she didn’t notice my tears at night, how I silently packed my books in the kitchen, just to avoid being in their presence, or how I locked myself in the bathroom to sit in silence.
The final straw was the night I overheard them arguing again. Their shouting made the windows shake. I ran out of my room to stand between them, to protect my mum—I was terrified he might hit her. But things took a different turn. He looked at me with such fury that my heart sank. I yelled, “Stop it! Don’t shout at her!”—and immediately got hit. It was a real, hard adult blow. He struck me across the face so hard I fell, hitting my head on the corner of a cupboard. Everything blurred. All I remember is my mum screaming and then… silence.
I thought he’d leave after that. That she would throw him out, hold me close, call a doctor, and tell me how much she loved me. I waited for it. I looked into her eyes, seeking salvation. But she only whispered, “You’ve ruined everything yourself.” An hour later, she told me I needed to move in with my dad.
I packed my things without a word. It felt like my heart had been ripped out. I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. I just left, realizing that I no longer had a home.
Now I live with my dad. He tries his best, but we lack the closeness I always sought with my mum. I no longer hope that she’ll call, apologize, or visit… Though deep down, I’m still a little girl waiting for her mum to come through the door and say, “I’m sorry, darling.” But that won’t happen. She chose him. She picked the man who hit her child.
I don’t harbor ill-will towards her. But I know that someday he will leave. He’ll find someone younger, prettier, easier to control. She’ll be left alone. Maybe then, she’ll remember me. But I won’t be the forgiving one anymore. Because a mother’s betrayal is a wound that never heals.
I say this to all parents: don’t have children if you’re not ready to be there for them, if you can’t put them above your romantic entanglements. We, the children, are not to blame for whom you love. We didn’t ask to be born. But if you chose to bring us into this world—don’t betray us.
Mum, if you ever read this… know that I survived. I stood up. I’m strong. But I will never come to you with tears, like I used to. You’re no longer my mum. You’re just the woman who once gave birth to me.
