You just stood by and watched my marriage fall apart: I tried not to interfere in my daughter’s relationship, and now she blames me.
My daughter Lucy is a force of nature. My husband and I raised her in peace and quiet—our home in the outskirts of Manchester was always calm, no shouting or arguments. But Lucy inherited my mother’s temper—fiery, loud, and stubborn. My mum always got her way, could take offence at the smallest thing, and never listened to anyone. Lucy, though she never knew her, mirrors her habits perfectly. And it breaks my heart.
Lucy can’t stand criticism. Any advice goes in one ear and out the other, or she takes it as a personal attack. For years, my husband and I tried to guide her, but it was like talking to a brick wall. Even in primary school, she learned how to manipulate people, getting what she wanted with an angelic smile. She only ever heard what suited her, never what she needed to do. The slightest correction would wound her, ending in tears and tantrums. Her teenage years were hell. I was terrified she’d fall in with the wrong crowd, start smoking, or—God forbid—get pregnant. That didn’t happen, but she drained every last bit of patience from us.
When Lucy finished school, she announced she was an adult and moving out. She packed a bag and rented a flat in central London with a friend. She dropped out of uni, deciding earning money was more important. For two years, we barely saw her. She rarely answered calls, never visited. I aged from worry, dreading a late-night call from the hospital or police. But then things changed. Lucy started popping by on weekends—first occasionally, then more often. We’d have tea, avoid the past, and I hoped the storm had passed.
I tried teaching her to cook, to manage household things, but she’d cut me off: “I know what I’m doing!” Soon, we learned Lucy had a boyfriend—Oliver. Calm, kind-hearted, he had a way of defusing her outbursts, turning fights into jokes. Around him, she seemed happy, balanced. They married not long after, and I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking she’d finally grown up. How wrong I was.
Their happiness lasted barely a few months. Lucy’s old self took over. After every row with Oliver, she’d turn up at ours and stay the night. Knowing how much she hated advice, I kept quiet, just watching. Once, she swore she’d never go back to him—only to make up days later like nothing happened. I bit my tongue, afraid to disrupt her fragile peace.
But Oliver’s patience ran out. One day, coming home after another fight, Lucy found a note. He’d left, suggesting a divorce. That day, she spiraled into hysterics. Not only had her husband walked out, but she’d also been sacked from her job. For two weeks, I cared for her like a child—cooking, talking late into the night, trying to distract her. Then one evening, walking into the flat, I saw Lucy with a suitcase.
“This is all your fault!” she snapped before I could even say hello.
“Love, what’s going on? What did I do?” I froze.
“You let Oliver walk all over me! You saw how he treated me—you should’ve stepped in!” she yelled.
“You never listened to a word I said. Always insisted you could handle it yourself,” I reminded her.
“You could’ve tried harder instead of just watching my marriage crumble!” Her words cut deep, every one like a knife.
“Don’t you dare say that! I’m not to blame for your fights. You’re adults—you made your choices. How is this on me?” I fought back.
“Of course, it’s never your fault! Thanks for all your ‘help.’ I was right to leave after school. I never should’ve come back!” With that, she stormed out, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled.
I stood there, stunned. All those days, I’d cared for her, stayed out of her life like she wanted. And yet, to her, I’m the reason everything went wrong. My little girl never grew up—still looking for someone to blame. It kills me that she thinks I’m a bad mother. But I’m done trying to convince her. It’s her life; she can live it how she wants. So why does it hurt so much?
