**Diary Entry – A Mother’s Rejection and the Price of Vanity**
It’s been a month since she shattered us. Hurt, furious, and utterly alone, she’s buried herself in bitterness after her latest lover walked away. She really believed this time would be different—that “happiness” was finally within her grasp.
I’m 26, and her name is Victoria. She’s 44. Biologically, she’s my mother. But in every way that matters, we’re strangers. She married my father at nineteen, and I arrived a year later—an unwanted child, as she never hesitated to remind me. They divorced almost immediately after I was born, and from then on, she referred to my father only as a “good-for-nothing” and a “failure.”
The irony? That “failure” has been happily married for over twenty years now. He runs his own business, owns a sprawling country house just outside London, two flats, and even a holiday cottage in the Lake District. He’s the one who gifted my husband and me our home as a wedding present.
I was raised by my grandmother—my father’s mother. Later, Dad took me into his new family. And you know what? I never once felt like an outsider there. My stepmother is pure gold—she became the mother I never had. As for Victoria? I’ve called her by her first name since childhood. And for good reason.
I was nine when she took me to Brighton for a “mother-daughter getaway.” Excited, I asked, “Mum, can we go to the beach?” What followed was a scream loud enough for half the hotel to hear:
*“Never call me ‘Mum’! It makes me sound old! Use my name—Victoria—do you understand?”*
I understood. And from that day on, I never went anywhere with her again. Her world revolved around men, spas, and late-night parties. I stayed with my grandmother, then with my father’s family. And thank God for that.
Victoria has had five husbands over the years, with countless boyfriends in between—endless flings, fake smiles, and eyelash extensions. She worked at an upscale salon in Chelsea, injecting herself with every cosmetic treatment imaginable. Botox, fillers, threads, lip plumpers—her face stopped showing emotion long ago, yet she still insisted, *“I’m still young—I’ve got my whole life ahead of me!”*
Her latest “prince” was two years younger than me. A lanky bartender named Jake, covered in tattoos, working at a shisha lounge.
*“Sweetheart, meet Jake. We’re getting married. This is serious,”* she announced, glowing like a teenager before prom.
I froze. Then, quietly, I said, *“Victoria… I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a grandmother.”*
Jake fumbled with champagne, cheering loudly. But my mother went pale. Without a word, she grabbed her bag, slammed the door, and vanished.
A week later, she reappeared—tear-streaked, her face twisted in rage:
*“This is your fault! He left me! You ruined everything with your ‘grandmother’ nonsense! I’m not ageing—I’m only 37! I still have a life to live, and you’re dragging me into the grave with your children!”*
I couldn’t believe my ears. The woman who gave birth to me called my pregnancy a betrayal. Then she delivered the final blow—the words that scorched away any lingering attachment:
*“I never had a daughter. And I’ll never have grandchildren. Forget I exist.”*
And with that, she left.
We turned to our real family—my grandparents. They embraced us, crying with joy, already talking about baby names, who’d push the pram, who’d knit little booties. They are my foundation, my shelter, my true home.
As for Victoria? Let her chase eternal youth. But one day, she’ll wake to silence—in an empty flat, in a body that no longer feels like hers, staring into a mirror that no longer reflects anything real. And maybe then, she’ll finally understand what she’s lost.
