“Of course, you’re welcome to visit… but you’ll have to stay in a hotel. My husband needs peace and quiet.” That’s how my mother turned us away—all for the sake of a man.
To everyone else, my mum’s always seemed kind, gentle, and full of smiles. But I, her daughter, knew the side she never showed outsiders—the side where endless desperation to “have a man” was hidden behind that soft exterior. And the cost? A shattered relationship with her daughter and granddaughter.
My dad left us when I was just four. He walked out for another woman, and Mum—well, she just couldn’t accept it. She begged, humiliated herself, called him endlessly, even waited outside his flat, crying into the phone. She said she couldn’t manage alone, that she was terrified of raising a child by herself. But he never came back. Just… gone. My nan, Mum’s own mother, had to drag her away from those pathetic scenes. She wasn’t ashamed of her son-in-law—she was ashamed of her own daughter. Mum might’ve calmed down on the outside, but inside, she’d started a countdown: find a husband, no matter what.
And so she did—with anyone who’d have her. She clung to every man like he was her last chance. Cheating, drinking, even slaps across the face, humiliation right in front of me—she forgave it all. As a kid, I’d often hear her sobbing behind the bathroom door, covering bruises with makeup, claiming she’d “just fallen.” Then came the new hair colour, the new dress, the crash diet—all so “he” wouldn’t leave.
I fought back—screamed, argued, clashed with every single one of her men. She’d try to soothe me, stroke my hair, say, “You don’t understand what it’s like to be alone.” But I did understand. I saw everything. So after secondary school, I moved to London for uni and made sure to come home as little as possible.
When Nan passed, she left me her flat. I sold it, bought a place far from Mum and her revolving door of “loves,” got a job, built a quiet life for myself. I got married—but Mum didn’t come to the wedding. Her excuse?
“I can’t leave my man alone, he’s got terrible anxiety, he can’t handle trips…”
I just sighed. Truth was, I hadn’t even wanted her there—didn’t want some random “gentleman caller” at my wedding, who at that point didn’t even know my name.
Three years passed with barely any contact between us. The occasional call. Then I had my daughter. Mum was thrilled, wanted to see her granddaughter. Started ringing more, begging us to visit.
Five years went by. My little girl grew up. I thought, fine—maybe it’s time. Let her meet her nan, have some kind of connection. My husband and I booked train tickets, and I called Mum: “We’re coming next week.” She was over the moon, promised to get everything ready.
Then, two days before we were set to leave—the weirdness started.
“Love, we’ve suddenly got some renovations going on… and honestly, the flat’s a bit tight for you and the little one. My husband’s getting on, you know, really values his peace—can’t stand children’s noise. Maybe a hotel would be better? I know a nice one—”
I went silent. Then, flatly: “Are you serious?”
“Well… you know how things are here. He gets worked up. I don’t want drama. This way’s just… calmer for everyone.”
My head went white-hot. After everything. Missing my wedding. Years of silence. Me trying to meet her halfway—and she’s shoving us into a hotel because her *husband* (current one, at least) can’t handle noise? My daughter isn’t even loud! She’s well-behaved! But even if she weren’t—she’s her *grandchild*! I hung up and told my husband, “We’re not going.”
Mum got upset. Said I was ungrateful, that I didn’t understand her situation. But what was the point in going? Not to stay in a hotel down the road from the woman who’d rather cater to some man than her own family.
Years pass. Mum’s still with him—or maybe a new one by now, I don’t keep track. We speak less and less. My daughter’s got a proper nan—my husband’s mum. The kind who bakes cakes, reads bedtime stories, doesn’t shut the door in your face. My own mother? Still in her world, where a man always comes first, and her own blood’s an afterthought.
If that’s what she wants—fine. Let her enjoy her precious peace and quiet. Just don’t ask me later why her granddaughter doesn’t invite her to school plays or send Mother’s Day cards. Silence is a choice. And choices have consequences.
