She’s been on the edge for a month now. Hurt, furious, alone. Withdrawn into herself after her lover walked out. And yet she truly believed in “happiness,” that this time it would be real.
I’m 26, and her name is Margaret—she’s 44. Biologically, she’s my mother. But in reality, we’re strangers. She married my father at nineteen. A year later, I arrived—an unwanted child, as she later repeated many times. They divorced almost immediately after I was born, and ever since, she’s only ever called him a “deadbeat” and a “loser.”
The irony? That “loser” has been married to his second wife for over twenty years. He owns a business, a big country house just outside London, two flats, and even a cottage in the Lake District. He’s the one who gave me a home as a wedding gift, where my husband and I live now.
My grandmother—my father’s mother—raised me. Later, Dad took me into his new family. And you know what? I never felt like an outsider. My stepmother is pure gold—to me, she’s been a real mum. But Margaret? I’ve called her by her first name since I was little. And not without reason.
I was nine when she took me to Brighton—”a little mother-daughter getaway.” All I said was, “Mum, can we go to the beach?” And then came the scream that echoed through half the hotel:
“Don’t ever call me Mum! It makes me sound old! It’s Margaret—got it?”
I got it. And after that, I never went anywhere with her again. Her world was men, salons, and parties. I stayed with my grandmother, then with Dad and his new family. And thank God for that.
Margaret’s had five husbands over the years. In between, there were endless affairs, wild nights, fake smiles, and caked-on mascara. She worked at an exclusive spa in Chelsea. Injected everything she could—Botox, fillers, threads, lip plumpers. Her face barely moved anymore, but she still insisted, “I’m still young, I’ve still got it!”
Her latest “prince” was two years younger than me. A guy named Jake. Skinny, covered in tattoos, worked as a bartender at a nightclub.
“Sweetheart, meet Jake. We’re getting married. This is serious,” she gushed, beaming like a schoolgirl at prom.
I froze. Then quietly said,
“Margaret… I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a grandmother.”
Jake fussed around, pouring champagne, cheering—but my mother went pale. She stood up without a word, grabbed her bag, slammed the door, and vanished.
A week later, she reappeared—tear-streaked, her face twisted:
“This is your fault! He left me! You ruined everything with your ‘grandma’ nonsense! I refuse to get old! I’m only 37! I still have a life to live, and you’re dragging me into the grave with your kids!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. The woman who gave birth to me called my pregnancy a “betrayal.” Then she delivered the final blow, burning away whatever bond was left:
“I never had a daughter. And I won’t have grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Forget I exist.”
And she left.
So we went to my real family—my grandparents. They hugged me, cried happy tears. They’re already talking baby names, who’ll take the pram out, who’ll knit the booties. They’re my foundation, my safe place, my home.
And Margaret? Let her chase eternal youth. But one day, she’ll wake up in silence—in an empty flat, in a body that isn’t hers anymore, staring at a mirror where her reflection no longer stares back. Maybe then she’ll realize what she’s truly lost.
