**Diary Entry**
I’m 38, and I’m still afraid of my own mother. It’s eating me alive.
Every year, I catch myself staring into the mirror, trying to remember who I am. A woman who’s achieved so much: a university degree, a senior position at a major logistics firm in Manchester, a stable marriage—even if we’ve chosen not to have children. I respect my husband, Edward, and love him deeply; he’s my anchor. His son from a previous marriage, Oliver, has long felt like my own. By all accounts, I should be content—comfort, security, family. And yet, there’s this fear inside me. Not some fleeting, teenage dread, but something real, physical. Fear of my own mother.
Thirty-eight years old. I manage a department, solve complex problems, negotiate with partners, hire and fire staff. But the moment she appears, it all crumbles. My knees go weak, my throat tightens, my palms turn ice-cold, and suddenly, I’m a child again: her yanking the blankets off me, dragging me by my hair because I hadn’t washed the dishes fast enough. Hurling a shoe at me when I came home late from school. Mocking me in front of her latest boyfriends, comparing me to other girls. Her three marriages were hell on earth. My father vanished without a trace—I don’t even know if he’s alive. And Mum? She only grew harsher with time.
Edward sees it. He doesn’t just suspect—he’s witnessed it. The way I freeze when her voice crackles through the phone. How I stumble over my words when she shows up unannounced. He’s suggested therapy, told me I need to unload this weight. But I… I can’t. A grown woman, a department head, terrified of looking weak. Admitting I need help feels like confessing I’ve failed—and I’ve spent my whole life pretending to be unbreakable. Except one call from her, and that facade shatters into a trembling little girl.
At first, her visits were “just for a few days.” Then, those few stretched into a week. She’d arrive with bags, rifle through our wardrobes, snoop in drawers—even went through my laptop once. Over dinner, she casually asked Edward, “How many mistresses have you had, living with such a frigid bore?” I couldn’t speak. Just pressed my napkin to my lips while Edward, furious, threw her out.
But she stayed. Another two days. With the same refrain: “I’m your mother. You’re my daughter.” That’s all it took—those words erased every boundary, every wrong, every intrusion.
And I can’t say no. That’s the worst of it. The moment I hear her voice, my language deserts me. I can’t refuse. I always say, “Yes, come over,” even when every part of me screams, “Don’t!” I lie—to myself, to Edward, to everyone. And I hate myself for it.
Last week, she called, cool as anything: “I’ve booked my tickets. I’ll be there from the 30th to the 10th.” Never mind that Edward, Oliver, and I had already planned a New Year’s getaway—just the three of us, a hotel in York, a proper rest. I’d even planned the meals. But Mum decided, and that was that. And, of course, I still couldn’t say, “Don’t come.”
This time, though, Edward and I made a different choice. We’re leaving. Checking into a hotel. Turning off our phones. Running away. Let her arrive, kiss the doorstep, and do as she pleases. It’s not revenge. It’s survival. Because another New Year with her would break me.
Sometimes, it’s terrifying to admit, even to myself—I don’t love my mother. I’m afraid of her. And I don’t understand why she despises me so much that she keeps ruining my life, even now. All I want is to live. Without tears, without fear, without waiting for the next cruel word or sneer.
I don’t know if fleeing my own home is the grown-up thing to do. But right now, it’s the only thing that might save me. Even a little. Even just for a while. From the woman I still can’t defend myself against at 38.
