Mum is entirely caught up in my life and the lives of my children, constantly forcing her opinions on us…
I’ve been married for ten years now, and we are a family of faith, raising three children. When I got married, I left my small town near Birmingham, where I lived with my mum and grandmother. After my grandmother passed away, Mum was left alone. She missed us, visited frequently, but managed somehow—she worked, coped. However, a few years ago, everything changed. Her health deteriorated—her blood pressure was up and down, her joints ached, and driven by worry, I insisted she move closer to us. She agreed. She had lived her whole life with her mum, alone, without a husband, and I couldn’t leave her by herself. We rented her a place near our home in the suburbs, pay for it, and even found her a job so she wouldn’t feel lost.
But rather than gratitude, I ended up with a burden that’s becoming heavier each day. Mum didn’t just move closer—she consumed my life and the lives of my children. Previously, when she visited, it was tolerable: she enjoyed being with the grandchildren, helped out, and left. Now, it’s as if she has melted into us, into our home, into our every move. Her presence is suffocating, her overwhelming care and control unbearable. She has her own opinions and rules, which she relentlessly insists for both me and the children, ignoring our faith, our traditions, our life. She seems oblivious to any boundaries—mine or the children’s.
Everything I do is wrong. I’m raising the children poorly, not feeding them right, saying the wrong things to them. She must know every detail of our lives: what we ate, where we went, what we talked about. She interrogates our babysitters, sniffs out information like a detective, and then bombards me with what she thinks are “helpful” suggestions. Each year feels like our bond is snapping, turning into frayed nerves and endless arguments. I’ve been living with this for too long, and it’s broken me. At home, I’ve become irritable, sharp, and I’ve started to doubt myself as a mother. Her shadow looms over me constantly even when she’s not around—I hear her voice, her reprimands, her sighs.
I’ve tried setting boundaries, limited her visits using the children’s activities and busy schedules as excuses. But it doesn’t work—she always finds a way to intrude. She doesn’t accept my husband, views him with disdain, as if he prevents her from completely taking over me and the kids, bringing back the life she had with my grandmother when she raised me alone. Sometimes, she overwhelms me with complaints: “I’m a burden, you don’t need me, you’re abandoning me.” And I drown in it—not knowing how to be kind, to remain myself, without screaming out of frustration. Every conversation with her leaves me drained, like a squeezed lemon, feeling completely exhausted.
She insists that I’m exaggerating, that all this is just her love for me—so strong, so selfless. But it’s driving me mad. I want to be a good daughter, but I can’t—her “love” is choking me, like a noose. I don’t want to see her, and this feeling breaks my heart because it comes with guilt, heavy as a rock. After every call, I sit in silence, trying to piece myself back together, but I can’t.
Now we have a glimmer of hope—my husband has been offered a job abroad, and we are planning to move. It feels like a ray of light in the darkness: I see a chance to escape, to breathe freely, to finally live my own life. Yet, there’s a pang in my chest—leaving Mum here alone feels like betrayal. She isn’t getting any younger, and what if her health gets worse? What if she’s suffering and I’m too far away to help? This thought torments me day and night.
But living near her any longer is impossible. I need space, distance—another city, another country, where she can only visit, not embed herself in our lives like roots in the soil. I dream of the day when her shadow stops hanging over me, but the fear and the sense of duty hold me in a vice. Am I doing the right thing by leaving her here? Even worse—concealing how much I want to? What if her loneliness becomes her pain, and I’m to blame? I feel awful, torn between loving her and longing for freedom. This decision cuts like a knife, and I don’t know if I have the strength to make it.
