At 38, I still fear my mother. And it’s eating me alive.
Every year, I stare into the mirror and remind myself who I am—a woman who has achieved so much: a university degree, a senior position at a leading logistics firm in Manchester, a stable marriage, even if we don’t have children together. I respect and love my husband, Edward, who has been my anchor, and his son from his first marriage, Oliver, whom I’ve long considered my own. On the surface, it’s the picture of a perfect life. A home, comfort, security. But inside, there’s fear—not the kind you outgrow, not some fleeting worry, but a deep, physical terror of my own mother.
I’m thirty-eight. I run a department, tackle complex problems, negotiate with partners, hire and fire people. Yet, the moment she appears—my mother—everything collapses. My knees buckle, my throat tightens, my palms turn ice-cold, and in my mind’s eye, I’m a child again: her tearing the blankets off me, pulling my hair because I didn’t wash the dishes. Her hurling a slipper at me for coming home late from school. Her mocking laughter in front of yet another boyfriend, comparing me to other girls. Her three marriages were hell on earth. My father vanished, and I don’t even know if he’s alive. With time, Mum only grew harsher, crueler.
Edward sees it all. He doesn’t just suspect—he’s witnessed it. How I freeze when her voice rings through the phone. How I stutter when she shows up unannounced. He’s suggested therapy, told me I need to unload this weight. But I can’t. Me—a capable woman, a department head, terrified of appearing weak. Sitting in a therapist’s office would mean admitting I’m failing. I’ve spent a lifetime pretending to be ironclad. Yet one call from her reduces me to a trembling child.
At first, she’d visit for “just a couple of days.” Then those days stretched into a week. She’d arrive with bags, rifle through our cupboards, rummage through documents, even opening my laptop once. Over dinner, she once coolly asked Edward, “How many mistresses have you had, living with such a frigid bore?” I couldn’t speak. Not a word. I just stared at my napkin while Edward, furious, showed her the door.
But she stayed. Two more days. With one sentence: “I’m your mother. And you’re my daughter.” That was it. With those words, she erased every boundary. Every guilt. Every intrusion.
And I can’t refuse her. That’s my greatest tragedy. The moment I hear her voice, my tongue goes numb. I can’t say no. I always mumble, “Alright, come over…” even when every part of me screams, “Don’t! I don’t want you here!” I lie to myself, to Edward, to everyone. And I hate myself for it.
Last week, she called and said calmly, “I’ve bought the 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 trip to Edinburgh—just the three of us. I’d even sorted the menu. But Mum decided, so that was that. And, of course, I still couldn’t say, “Don’t come.”
This time, though, Edward and I chose differently. We’re leaving. Booking a hotel. Turning off our phones. Running. She can kiss the door when she arrives and do as she pleases. It’s not revenge. It’s survival. Because I won’t endure another New Year with her.
Sometimes, I’m afraid to admit it even to myself—but I don’t love my mother. I’m afraid of her. And I don’t understand why she despises me so much that she still twists my life now. All I want is to live—without tears, without fear, without waiting for the next blow of pain or humiliation.
I don’t know if fleeing my own home is a grown-up solution. But right now, it’s the only thing that can save me. Even just a little. Even just for a while. From the woman I still can’t escape—even at thirty-eight.
