My name is Emily, I’m 17 years old, and I’m from London. For a long time, I kept my feelings bottled up, but now I’ve decided to share my story. Perhaps someone else will see themselves in it. Perhaps it will encourage someone to reflect on their behavior. Or maybe, just maybe, 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 our family life was happy before that—arguments, accusations, and a cold atmosphere permeated even when I didn’t fully grasp what was going on. But it became even worse after the divorce. It felt as though my mum and dad were in a tug-of-war over me—not out of love, but out of obligation. I was shuttled between their homes like luggage. My dad’s place was cramped, but at least it was peaceful. My mum’s house was roomier, but with each passing year, the tension became more suffocating.
Everything completely fell apart when a new man appeared in my mum’s life. His name was Jack. He was in his thirties, nearly a decade younger than my mum, and immediately acted as though he owned the place, with me just being in the way. At first, he wore a polite smile and pretended to be interested in how I was doing. But the façade didn’t last long. He didn’t like that I lived with my mum. He disapproved of her spending money on me. He didn’t hold back from saying bluntly that my dad was irresponsible, that I was a burden, and that it was high time I learned to fend for myself.
He manipulated my mum, drained her finances, and convinced her that she didn’t need a teenage daughter—that she needed independence and self-care. And my mum… she listened to him. She couldn’t see how I cried at night. How I quietly gathered my books in the kitchen just to stay out of their way. How I locked myself in the bathroom for an hour just to sit in silence.
The breaking point was a night when I heard them arguing again. The shouting was loud enough to rattle the windows. I rushed out of my room to stand between them, to protect my mum—I was terrified that he’d hurt her. But things took a different turn. He looked at me with such rage that it made my heart clench. I shouted, “Stop! Don’t you dare yell at her!” and was immediately struck. A real, adult, powerful blow. He hit me in the face, and I fell, hitting the corner of the cupboard. Everything went hazy. I remember only my mum’s scream and then… silence.
I thought he would leave after that. That my mum would throw him out, hold me tight, call a doctor, tell me she loved me. I waited for that, searching her eyes for salvation. But she only whispered, “You ruined everything.” An hour later, she said I needed to move in with my dad.
I packed my things in silence. 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 my dad. He does his best, but we don’t have the closeness I always longed for with my mum. I no longer hope she’ll call, apologize, or come… Though deep down, I’m still a little girl waiting for her mum to open the door and say, “I’m sorry, my darling.” But that won’t happen. She chose him. She chose the man who hit her child.
I don’t wish her any harm. But I know: one day he’ll leave. He’ll find someone younger, prettier, easier. And maybe then she’ll remember me. But I won’t be the person who forgives everything 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 prioritize them, if you’re not capable of putting them above your love life dramas. We, as children, are not responsible for whom you love. We didn’t ask to be born. But if you choose to bring us into this world—do not betray us.
Mum, if you ever read this… know that I’ve survived. I’ve gotten back on my feet. I’m strong. But I will never come to you in tears again, like I used to. You’re no longer my mum. You’re just the woman who once gave birth to me.
