My name is Emily, I’m 17 years old, and I come from London. I’ve kept quiet for a long time, holding everything inside, but now I’m ready to share my story. Perhaps someone will see themselves in it. Maybe it will make someone rethink their actions. And perhaps, at least one mother will think twice before betraying her own daughter, as mine did.
My parents divorced when I was ten. I can’t say we were a happy family even before that—arguments, blame, and a chill between them was palpable even when I didn’t fully understand it all. But after the divorce, things got worse. It was as if my parents were competing over who needed me more—not out of love, but out of obligation. I was shuffled between flats like a suitcase with a broken handle. Dad’s place was cramped but at least peaceful. Mum’s was more spacious, but each year it became harder to breathe from all the tension.
Everything crumbled when a new man came into Mum’s life. His name was Jason. He was around thirty, nearly a decade younger than Mum, and he immediately acted as if he owned the place, treating me like an obstacle. At first, he’d politely smile and pretend to care about how I was doing. But the facade dropped quickly. He didn’t like me living with my mum or that she spent money on me. He wasn’t shy about saying my dad was irresponsible, that I was a burden, and that it was time for me to “stand on my own two feet.”
He manipulated Mum, drained her finances, and convinced her she didn’t need a teenage daughter and instead needed freedom and self-care. And Mum… Mum listened to him. She no longer noticed my silent tears at night or how I quietly gathered my books in the kitchen to avoid them, or how I locked myself in the bathroom for an hour to sit in silence.
The final straw came one night when I overheard them arguing again. The shouting was so intense the windows shook. I rushed out of my room to stand between them, wanting to protect Mum—I was scared he’d hit her. But it turned out differently. He looked at me with such rage that it made my heart freeze. I shouted, “Stop! Don’t you dare yell at her!” and was immediately struck. A real, adult, powerful hit. He slapped me so hard I fell, hitting the corner of the cabinet. Everything blurred. I remember Mum screaming and… then silence.
I thought he would leave after that. That Mum would kick him out, embrace me, call a doctor, and tell me how much she loved me. I waited for it. I looked into her eyes, seeking salvation. But she just whispered, “You ruined everything.” And an hour later, she said I needed to move in with Dad.
I packed my things silently. It felt like my heart had been ripped out. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just left, realizing I no longer had a home.
Now I live with Dad. He tries his best, but there’s no closeness between us like the one I yearned for with Mum during my childhood. I no longer hope she’ll call, apologize, or show up… Though deep down, I’m still a little girl waiting for Mum to open the door and say, “I’m sorry, my dear.” But that won’t happen. She chose a man. She chose him—the one who hit her child.
I don’t wish harm upon her. But I know: one day, he’ll leave. He’ll find someone younger, prettier, more accommodating. He’ll leave her alone. And then, maybe, she’ll remember me. But by then, I won’t be the forgiving one. Because a mother’s betrayal is a wound that never heals.
I’m saying this to all parents: don’t have children if you’re not ready to be there, if you can’t place them above your romantic dramas. We, as children, aren’t to blame for whom you love. We didn’t ask to be born. But if you’ve brought us into this world—don’t betray us.
Mum, if you ever read this… know that I’ve survived. I’ve stood up on my own. I’m strong. But I’ll never come to you with tears again, as I did before. You’re no longer my mum. You’re just a woman who once gave birth to me.