She is my mother… Yet it stings more than anything to hear nothing but criticism from her.
I’m forty-one. By all accounts, I should be a grown woman—married with children, a career, a home of my own. But inside, I’m still that little girl who searched her mother’s eyes, desperate for a glimmer of warmth, a word of kindness, just the faintest hint of pride. Just once. Just a whisper. But no… Even now, after all these years, I carry the ache of her indifference like an open wound.
There were three of us in the family—three daughters. I was the eldest. As far back as I can remember, I thought I had to be the one Mum would rely on, her pride, her “clever little girl.” After all, I was the first—the most aware, the most diligent. But Mum never saw it that way. She never hid it. My younger sister was the “troubled” one—rude, skipping school, throwing tantrums—but it was always excused as “just her way.” And the youngest? She was Mum’s favourite. Quiet, obedient, never a bother. Mum used to say she’d lie awake at night, checking if the youngest was even breathing, she was so fragile. And me? I might as well have been invisible.
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 for them, but for Mum. I spent my whole life trying to earn her approval. Top marks in school, retaking tests even when I scored well. Never called to the headteacher’s office—I was the model pupil. Never asked for fancy toys, never threw a fit. All I wanted was for her to say she was proud of me.
Yet every time I visit, it’s the same. “You’re not much to look at,” “Honestly, you do everything backwards,” “Where did I go wrong with you?” I’ve tried brushing it off—told myself, “That’s just how she speaks,” “She’s tired,” “She doesn’t know any other way.” But when you’ve spent years working late, raising children, keeping a home together, only to hear, “Your housekeeping’s a disgrace,” “You can’t cook,” “Your children are wild,” “This place is a tip”—you reach breaking point.
When I had my son, Mum practically shoved me back to work.
“You’ll go soft if you stay home too long. Get back out there!”
And when I did return to the office? More barbs.
“Oh, so you’ve got your precious job now, haven’t you? Family comes second, does it? Heartless career woman! Besides, you’re hopeless at work—never amount to much.”
Round and round it goes. Comparisons, always. The youngest’s beauty, the middle one’s sharp wit, the way they’ve “landed on their feet.” And me? A mistake. Every time, I bite my tongue. I clench my fists, blink back tears. Because if I dare say a word, she’ll snap, “Ungrateful, that’s what you are. Nothing’s changed!”
Sometimes I want to scream, “Mum, why don’t you love me? What did I do wrong? Why must you always cut me down?” But I can’t. I don’t have the strength. I’m terrified—that if I speak my pain, she’ll vanish from my life completely. And I couldn’t bear that. No matter how much it hurts, I can’t sever the last thread between us.
My husband tells me, “You should say something. Maybe it’ll wake her up.” But he doesn’t understand. For him, it’s simple. For me, she’s more than that. She’s like the roots of a tree, like the air I breathe. Without her, I’d be lost. Even if she cuts me, even if she never says it—she’s my mother. And somewhere deep down, that little girl is still waiting, hoping one day she’ll whisper—
“My dear, you’ve done well. I’m proud of you.”
So I wait. As I’ve always waited.
