She’s my mother… Yet it hurts so much to hear nothing but criticism from her.
I’m forty-one. By all accounts, I should be an independent woman—married, with children, a career, a home. But inside, I’m still that little girl searching her mother’s eyes, desperate for a kind word, a moment of warmth, a hint of pride. Just once. Just a whisper. But no… All these years later, the wound still burns—the ache of a mother’s withheld love.
There were three of us girls in the family. I was the eldest. From childhood, I believed it was my role to be Mum’s pride, her rock, her “clever little girl.” The eldest—the one who tried hardest, who understood most. But Mum never saw it that way. She made no secret of it. My middle sister was the “troubled one”—rude, skipping school, throwing tantrums—yet she was excused. “That’s just her character.” And the youngest? She was Mum’s favourite. Quiet, sweet, no trouble at all. Mum would say she’d lie awake at night, tiptoeing in just to check if the youngest was still breathing, she was so fragile. And me? I was just… there.
I don’t blame my sisters. They have their own lives, and none of this is their fault. But the bitterness gnaws at me—not toward them, but toward *her*. My mother. I spent my whole life trying to earn her approval. Top marks in school, retaking tests even if I got an A. Never giving the teachers reason to call home—I was the perfect child. No tantrums, no demands. I just wanted her to be proud.
Yet every visit, it’s the same. “You’re plain, aren’t you?” “You’ve got no sense, doing it all wrong.” “What *happened* to you?” I told myself not to take it personally—”That’s just how she is,” “She’s tired,” “She doesn’t know any other way.” But after years of effort, sleepless nights with the kids, juggling work and home, still hearing it—”Your house is a mess,” “You can’t cook,” “Your children are feral”—it wears you down.
When I had my son, she practically shoved me back to work:
“Lazing about at home’ll rot your brain. Get back out there!”
And the moment I did, the complaints started again:
“Oh, so now your job’s more important than your family? Selfish, that’s what you are. And let’s be honest—you’re not even good at it.”
Round and round it goes. Comparisons, always. The youngest—so pretty. The middle one—married well, living comfortably. And me? A disappointment. Every time, I bite my tongue, lower my eyes, fall silent. Because if I speak up—”Oh, so now you’re ungrateful too? Nothing I do is good enough!”
Sometimes I want to scream, “Mum, *why* don’t you love me? What did I do wrong?” But I can’t. I’m afraid. Afraid if I finally say it all, she’ll turn away and vanish from my life completely. And I couldn’t bear that. However much it hurts, I can’t let go of the last thread between us.
My husband says, “You need to tell her. Maybe it’ll wake her up.” But he doesn’t understand. For him, it’s simple. For me? She’s not just a person. She’s my root. My air. Without her, I’d be nothing. Even if she hurts me—she’s my mum. And like a child, I still hope one day she’ll say:
“You’re a good girl. I’m proud of you.”
So I wait. Still waiting, just like always.
