I had to ask my own mother to leave my house. I could no longer endure her behavior.
When I was a child, my mother meant everything to me. During those early years, I believed we had the warmest, strongest bond in the world. She took care of me, tucked me in at night, read bedtime stories, and braided my hair before school in our cozy little town outside of Cambridge. I thought it would always be like that—full of tenderness, connection, and peace.
But as I got older, I started to realize that her care had turned into suffocating control. She watched my every move—what I ate, with whom I was friends, what skirt I wore. If I dared to have an opinion, it would erupt into a full-blown argument, with tears and shouting.
“I’ve sacrificed my whole life for you! And you…” she’d throw in my face if I dared to voice my thoughts.
The years went by, and things only got worse. I grew up, married James, and had our son, Michael. Yet my mother refused to see me as an adult woman. She would burst into our lives unannounced, take over the kitchen, and boss James around as if he were her subordinate.
“He doesn’t know how to hold the baby!” she’d protest. “And you still haven’t learned to cook properly. What do you even feed your husband, disgraceful!”
I tried to gently explain that I now had my own family and my own rules, but my words would fall on deaf ears.
“This is my house!” she would stubbornly insist.
And in a way, she had a point. We lived in the flat inherited from my grandmother, which gave her the illusion of having complete authority over me and all of us.
But everyone has their limits, and I reached mine one fateful day.
I came home from work exhausted yet elated—I had been promoted. I wanted to share the news with James, open a bottle of wine, and celebrate. But at home, a nightmare awaited me. My mother was sitting in the living room, across from her was my son, Michael, sobbing with his face buried in his hands.
“What happened?” I rushed over to my son, my heart aching from his tears.
“Granny said you’re a bad mum… That I’d be better off living with her,” he sobbed, his whole body trembling.
Something snapped inside me. Anger, pain, and resentment fused into a single seething mass.
“You’ve gone too far, Mum!” My voice shook, ready to break into a shout.
She merely shrugged, as if nothing serious had happened. “I spoke the truth. You’re always at work, and the child grows up without supervision. What kind of mother are you?”
“What kind of mother?!?” I retorted, gasping for air in my fury. “And were you a good one when you whipped me for every little thing? When you forced me to 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 argue, but her confidence deserted her.
“You’re ungrateful!” she hurled back, but her voice was already weak, broken.
I took a deep breath and said what had been burning inside me: “You are no longer needed in this house. Leave.”
She stood up, slammed the door so hard the windows shook, and then she was gone. She hasn’t returned since.
The first days were hellish. Guilt suffocated me, and the emptiness inside felt infinite. I constantly asked myself: How could I have turned my own mother out? But then a sense of relief washed over me—it felt like a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Our home was finally peaceful, free from her constant dissatisfaction. James and I at last felt like the rulers of our own lives, our own family.
As for Mum… She found a place somewhere in town, rented a room. Occasionally, she tries to reach out—calling, sending brief messages. But I’m no longer the little girl who can be caught in a web of duty or manipulation. Now I decide who to let into my world and whom to keep at a distance. And this choice is my first step towards freedom.
