I’m twenty-five. I have a good job, study part-time, and try to build my life carefully but confidently on my own. I work as an assistant director at a large logistics company in Manchester—everything seems fine, but my heart aches because home doesn’t feel like home anymore. And Mum… the Mum I knew all my life… it’s like she’s vanished.
Mum raised me alone. I never knew my father—my birth certificate is blank, and in her memories, he’s just a faint shadow. We were like best friends. Of course, we had our moments. I was a difficult teenager—stubborn, argumentative, slamming doors—but Mum always knew how to reach me. She listened. She loved. Even in my darkest moments, she was my safe haven.
A few years ago, I moved out—rented a room, lived independently. But then, last year, everything fell apart. A difficult surgery, a painful breakup, my spirit just crumbled. Of course, Mum took me in. I went back to her flat—the same one where I’d always felt safe. But I didn’t come home to the same place.
It started about five years ago when Mum first mentioned Simon. A colleague, older than her, respectable, polite. But soon, I found out—he was married. That put me off, but Mum, like a lovesick teenager, insisted, “His marriage has been over for years.” They kept seeing each other, then he left his wife and moved in with us. A year later, they got married.
The wedding was small, just family. I smiled, gave flowers, tried to be happy for her. But from that moment, Mum began to fade—disappearing, dissolving into someone else. Her behaviour changed—subtly, but unmistakably.
We used to talk for hours late into the night. About everything—TV shows, my studies, food, the future. Now, silence settles between us. Simon clearly wasn’t thrilled to have me around. His glances, sly remarks, little digs—Mum acted like she didn’t notice. Or maybe she didn’t want to.
Slowly, she became someone else. A coldness in her voice. Mannerisms not her own. Like she was copying him. First, it was little things—phrases, opinions. Then she started criticising everything—my clothes, my boyfriend. She called him “a waste of space,” said I was “hopeless” for not finding a proper relationship. Two years ago, she’d held me when I cried over a broken heart.
The worst part? She started drinking. Every evening, I’d come home from work to find them at the table, a bottle between them. Glasses, snacks, laughter—but not the kind I knew. Heavy, edged with something bitter. They’d talk like I was just a guest. Sometimes, drunk and angry, Mum would snap that I was “temporary.” That the flat was hers, and if I didn’t like it, the door was open.
I tried talking to her. Calmly, desperately, begging—wake up. This isn’t you. She’d listen, then… brush me off. Or walk away. Or roll her eyes: “You’re jealous because your life’s a mess.”
We’ve lost each other. No shouting match. No final blow. Just slowly, painfully drifting apart, like two lines that’ll never cross again.
Now, I’m on the edge of a new life. My boyfriend proposed. We’re looking for a place. I should be happy, but my heart won’t settle. How do I leave Mum with this man who’s changing her? She was never like this—harsh, bitter, indifferent. But now, she is.
If I go, it feels like I’m abandoning her. If I stay, I’ll lose myself. And right now, I don’t know how to live with either choice.
