I had to ask my own mother to leave the house. I could no longer put up with her behavior.
When I was little, my mother was my everything. As a child, I believed we had the warmest and strongest bond in the world. She looked after me, tucked me in at night, read bedtime stories, and braided my hair before school in our cozy town outside of York. I thought it would always be this way—this tenderness, this connection, this calm.
But as I grew older, I noticed her care turning into suffocating control. She monitored every move I made: what I ate, who I befriended, and what skirt I wore. The slightest disagreement on my part would lead to a full-scale argument, filled with tears and shouting.
“I’ve given my whole life to you! And you…” she would throw at me whenever I dared to have my own opinion.
The years passed, and things only got worse. I grew up, married Edward, and had a son, Charlie. But my mother refused to see me as an adult woman. She burst into our lives unannounced, took over the kitchen, and issued orders to my husband as if he were her employee.
“He doesn’t know how to hold the baby!” she would exclaim. “And you haven’t even learned to cook! How are you feeding your husband, you disgrace?”
I tried to gently explain that I had my own family now, with its own rules, but she ignored my words.
“This is my house!” she stubbornly insisted.
And indeed, it was. We lived in a flat that belonged to my grandmother, giving her the illusion of complete control over me, over all of us.
But everything has its limits, and mine came on one fateful day.
I returned from work tired but happy—I’d been promoted. I wanted to share the news with Edward, open a bottle of wine, and celebrate. But what awaited me at home was a nightmare. My mother sat in the living room with my Charlie opposite her, crying into his hands.
“What happened?” I rushed to my son, my heart breaking at his tears.
“Grandma said you’re a bad mum… That it’d be better if I lived with her,” he sobbed, his whole body trembling.
Something inside me snapped. Anger, pain, and resentment swirled into a flaming mass.
“You’ve crossed every line, Mum!” my voice shook, ready to burst into a scream.
She merely shrugged as if nothing serious had happened:
“I told the truth. You’re always at work, and the child grows up unattended. What kind of mother are you?”
“What kind of mother?!” I echoed, gasping with fury. “And were you a good one, when you hit me with a belt for every little thing? When you made me live by your rules, not giving me room to breathe?”
For the first time, I saw confusion in her eyes. She opened her mouth to retort, but her confidence was gone.
“You’re ungrateful!” she spat back, but her voice was weak, broken.
I took a deep breath and delivered the words that burned within me:
“You are no longer needed in this house. Leave.”
Mum stood up, slammed the door so hard the windows shook, and left. She hasn’t come back since.
The first days were dreadful. Guilt choked me, the emptiness in my chest felt endless. I kept asking myself: how could I cast out my own mother? But then relief washed over me—it was as if a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. The house was silent, unburdened by her constant dissatisfaction. Edward and I finally felt like the masters of our own lives, our own family.
As for Mum… She found a place somewhere in town and rented a room. Occasionally, she tries to reach out—calling, sending brief messages. But I’m no longer that little girl who can be hooked by guilt or manipulation. Now, I decide who to let into my world and who to keep at a distance. This choice is my first step toward freedom.
