I’m 38, and I’m still terrified of my mother. It eats away at me like a slow poison.
Every year, I stare into the mirror and try to remind myself who I am—a woman who’s achieved a lot: a university degree, a senior role at a major logistics firm in Manchester, a stable marriage (even if we haven’t had children of our own). My husband, James, is my anchor, and I adore him. His son from his first marriage, Oliver, might as well be my own. On paper, it’s all cosy domestic bliss. But inside? There’s fear. Not some vague teenage dread—real, gut-twisting terror. Fear of my own mother.
I’m 38. I run an entire department, solve impossible problems, negotiate with suppliers, hire and fire people. Yet the second *she* walks in, it all crumbles. My knees go weak, my throat tightens, my palms turn to ice, and suddenly, I’m twelve again—her ripping the duvet off me, dragging me by the hair because I hadn’t washed the dishes. Throwing a slipper at my head for coming home late from school. Laughing in front of her latest boyfriend, comparing me to other girls. Her three marriages were their own little hell. My dad vanished without a trace—I don’t even know if he’s alive. And Mum? She just got meaner with age.
James sees it. Not just guesses—he’s *witnessed* it. The way I freeze when her name flashes on my phone. The stammer that appears if she turns up unannounced. He’s begged me to try therapy, told me I need to unpack this baggage. But I… I can’t. A grown woman, a department head, terrified of looking weak. Admitting I need help feels like admitting defeat. I’ve spent my whole life pretending to be unbreakable. And yet, one call from Mum turns me back into a trembling little girl.
At first, her visits were just “popping by for a cuppa.” Then “a cuppa” became a week-long invasion. She’d arrive with suitcases, rummage through our wardrobes, rifle through paperwork, even snoop through my laptop once. Over dinner, she once casually asked James, *“So, how many mistresses have you had, married to such a frigid bore?”* I said nothing. Just stared at my napkin while James—bless him—kicked her out.
But she stayed. Two more days. With her favourite line: *“I’m your mother. You owe me.”* And just like that, every boundary vanished. Every cruel remark. Every unwelcome intrusion.
And I *let* her. That’s the worst part. One word from her, and my voice disappears. I can’t say *no*. Even when every fibre of me screams *don’t come*, I still whisper, *“Fine, visit whenever…”* I lie to myself, to James, to everyone. And I hate myself for it.
Last week, she called. *“Booked my train tickets. Be there from the 30th to the 10th.”* Never mind that James, Oliver, and I had already planned a quiet New Year’s getaway—a little hotel in York, just the three of us. I’d even picked out the menu. But Mum decided. So that was that. And, of course, I still couldn’t say *don’t come*.
But this time, James and I made a plan. *We’ll* leave. Book the hotel. Switch off our phones. Run away. Let her turn up to an empty flat, kiss the doorframe for all I care. It’s not revenge—it’s survival. Because another New Year with her might just break me.
Sometimes, it scares me to admit—even to myself—but I don’t love my mother. I’m *afraid* of her. And I still don’t understand why she hates me enough to keep torturing me, even now. All I want is to live. Without the fear. Without the humiliation. Without waiting for the next cruel remark.
I don’t know if sneaking off like a teenager is the “grown-up” solution. But right now, it’s the only thing that might save me—even just for a little while. From the woman I still can’t stand up to at 38.
