I was only fifteen when my mother announced she was marrying another man. And me—her only daughter—she sent away to live with my grandmother without a second thought. I was in the way of her “new life.” No letters, no calls, not a penny of help. She had everything—a man, a new family—while I had only my grandmother’s tiny flat and her pension, barely enough to scrape by. But Grandma loved me unconditionally, despite the modest life we led. She never divided me into “hers” or “not hers.” She shared everything with me: warmth, joy, pain. I grew up under her care, grateful for every embrace, every handkerchief that dried my tears.
When Grandma passed, I was in my second year at uni. The funeral, the shock, the emptiness. But one thing brought comfort—I kept her flat. An inheritance left not out of duty, but love. I, her only family, became the rightful owner of the place where I first knew what it meant to be loved.
Years passed. I’d nearly forgotten about my mother—like a dark chapter in my past. Then, a knock at the door. There she stood. No “hello,” no “how are you.” Just demands.
“Me and my husband are squeezed into our little flat, and you’ve got three bedrooms. We should swap. You owe me that much—I’m your mother!”
I stared at her, my chest burning with rage and hurt.
“You didn’t want me then,” I said. “So why do I owe you anything now?”
“Because I’m your mother!” she shrieked. “And I will live in this flat! How can you be so ungrateful?”
I shut the door. Thought that was the end of it. But it wasn’t.
Seven more years. I was married, raising my son. My husband and I worked hard, paid the mortgage, fixed up the house on weekends, savored every quiet evening together. Then—another knock.
I opened it, and there she was. Older now. Broken. Again, no greeting. Just a plea.
“Can I stay with you?”
My son ran into the hall. “Mum, who’s that?”
“I’m your grandma,” she blurted.
“Mum, is that true?” he asked, hesitant.
I sighed. “Go to your room, love. I’ll explain later.”
Alone, I learned her husband had swindled her—convinced her to sell their flat for a bigger place, then vanished with the money. She had nothing left. And now she came to me—the daughter she’d once thrown away.
“You won’t leave me on the street. You can’t. I raised you!”
“You raised me?” I nearly laughed from the sheer ache of it. “Grandma raised me. You left me for a man. And now you want my home?”
She stayed a couple of nights. I fed her, gave her a bed. Then I rang her cousin in the countryside—someone was needed to help in a village B&B. My aunt agreed. Mum left—but not quietly. She screamed in the stairwell like I was a stranger:
“You’re a terrible daughter! You’ll regret this!”
I stood in the doorway and said nothing. Because I was done shouting. Because I’d forgiven long ago. But letting her back in? That was different.
How could she walk in after all this time and demand love like nothing had happened? Like pain could be wiped away like dust from a windowsill? But I wasn’t that girl anymore—the one who could be betrayed and forgotten.
I’m a mother now. I know the cost of care. And I won’t let my son endure what I did. So—no. I’m not a terrible daughter. I just refuse to be her lifeline anymore. Let her swim on her own.
