I still can’t pinpoint the exact moment when everything spiralled out of control. How did the woman who had been my rock, my confidante, my guiding light—suddenly erase it all and betray me? All for a man. A man who isn’t even worth the shadow of who she used to be.
Mum had me late, at thirty. She always said I was her purpose, her anchor—her “child just for herself.” My father was never in the picture: a blank line on my birth certificate, not a single word about him in all her years. We lived modestly, but warmly. No fancy things, just love. She worked as an accountant; in the evenings, we baked biscuits, binge-watched dramas, talked about everything. I was certain—our bond was unbreakable. She never dated, never brought anyone home. Her whole world was me. Until I turned fifteen, it was pure bliss.
Then *he* appeared. *Gavin.* A colleague from another department. She came home one night with that flicker in her eyes—I knew instantly. Within weeks, there were whispered phone calls, new dresses, dates. I *wanted* to be happy for her. But something gnawed at me. Rightly so.
One day, she dropped it like a fact set in stone: *We’re moving in with Gavin. He’s got a two-bed—you’ll have your own room.* I protested—not out of jealousy, but because I *felt* it. The way he looked through me, like I was part of the furniture. But Mum wouldn’t listen. *You don’t understand—I’m happy,* was all she’d say. So I relented.
At first, it was just quiet. We coexisted—him in his space, me in mine, Mum caught between us. Then they married. A week before my A-levels. And everything shattered. He changed—not that he’d ever been kind, but now he was a full-blown tyrant. He belittled us, barked orders, made absurd demands.
*Two women in this house, and not a decent meal between you? She’s at school—where the hell are you?* he’d snarl. *Dressed up in heels, off chasing men, is that it?*
He’d scream, forbid her from leaving, dig through her messages, hurl her phone. She’d sob; he’d return with flowers. And the cycle repeated. A hundred times, I begged her: *Let’s go. I’ll stay with you, you’re not alone.* But she’d just wipe her tears. *You don’t understand. You’re still a child. I love him.*
Love. So much that he eventually forbade her from paying for my uni. She’d rented out our old flat, saved every penny—I’d dreamed of studying law. Revised day and night. When I missed the cut for grants, I’d hoped she’d help.
But Gavin’s verdict came: *A woman’s place is in the kitchen. You expect me to fund her degree? Marry rich—then study all you want.*
I snapped. Told him exactly what I thought. Packed my things and left. Mum… Mum didn’t even try to stop me. Called me ungrateful. Said I should *apologise* to Gavin.
I didn’t. We haven’t spoken since. Not a word. She chose him, dissolved into his cruelty. Now she speaks in his voice, moves with his gestures, even jokes like him—coarse, ugly. When she calls (if she calls), her voice is ice. Detached. Like I’m not her daughter, but some forgotten acquaintance.
I’ve stopped fighting. That woman—the one who loved me, baked scones, tucked blankets over me—she’s gone. She died the day she chose a man over her child. Losing her is a scar. But my choice? Not letting that pain burn away what’s left of me.
Let her live her life. But when she’s alone—let her remember who she betrayed for a stranger.
