I’m 38, and I’m still terrified of my own mother. And it’s eating me alive.
Every year, I stare into the mirror a little longer, trying to remind myself who I am. A woman who’s achieved a lot—a degree, a senior role at a major logistics firm in Manchester, a stable marriage (even if we don’t have kids of our own). I respect and love my husband, James, who’s my rock, and his son from his first marriage, Oliver, feels like blood to me now. On paper, it’s a dream: family, comfort, security. You’d think I’d be content. But there’s fear, lodged deep inside me—not some vague teenage dread, but a physical, unshakable terror. Fear of my own mother.
I’m thirty-eight. I run a department, handle crises, negotiate deals, hire and fire people. But the second she appears—my mother—it all crumbles. My knees buckle, my throat tightens, my palms go clammy, and suddenly I’m a child again: her yanking the duvet off me, dragging me by the hair because I didn’t wash the dishes fast enough. Her hurling a slipper at me for being late home from school. Her laughing in my face in front of yet another boyfriend, comparing me to other girls. Her three marriages were my personal hell. My father vanished into thin air—no idea if he’s even alive. And Mum? She just got harder, sharper with time.
James sees it all. He doesn’t just suspect—he’s witnessed it. The way I freeze at the sound of her voice on the phone. The stammering when she turns up unannounced. He’s suggested therapy, told me I need to unload this weight. But I can’t. Me, a grown woman, a department head—I can’t bear the thought of looking weak. Admitting I can’t cope. I’ve spent my life pretending to be made of steel. And yet, one call from Mum turns this “steel” woman into a trembling little girl.
At first, her visits were “just for a couple of days.” Then those days stretched into weeks. She’d arrive with bags, rifle through our wardrobes, snoop in our documents, our laundry—once, she even opened my laptop. Over dinner, she’d casually ask James, *“How many mistresses have you had, stuck with such a frigid, miserable wife?”* I couldn’t speak. Just stared at my napkin while James, furious, threw her out.
But she stayed. Two more days. With just one phrase: *“I’m your mother. And you’re my daughter.”* That was it. That sentence erased every boundary, every wrongdoing, every uninvited invasion.
And I can’t say no to her. That’s the real tragedy. The second I hear her voice, my tongue locks. I can’t refuse. I always say, *“Fine, come over…”* even when every part of me is screaming, *“Don’t! I don’t want you here!”* I lie to myself, to James, to everyone. And I hate myself for it.
Last week, she called and calmly announced, *“I’ve booked my tickets. I’ll be there from the 30th to the 10th.”* Never mind that James, Oliver, and I had already planned a New Year’s getaway—a cosy hotel in York, just the three of us. I’d even picked out menus. But Mum decided, and that was that. And of course, once again, I couldn’t say, *“Don’t come.”*
This time, though, James and I are doing things differently. We’re leaving. Booking a hotel. Turning off our phones. Running away. She can show up, kiss the front door, and do whatever she likes. It’s not revenge. It’s survival. Because another New Year with her might break me.
Sometimes it scares me to admit this, even to myself, but I don’t love my mother. I’m afraid of her. And I don’t understand why she hates me enough to keep wrecking my life, even now. All I want is to live—without tears, without fear, without waiting for the next blow.
I don’t know if fleeing my own home is the grown-up solution. But right now, it’s the only thing that might save me. Even just a little. Even just for a while. From the woman I still, at thirty-eight, can’t defend myself against.
