I’m thirty, but I still don’t live my own life: my mother decides everything for me, and I can’t break free.
Thirty years old—a proper adult age, when some people already have kids and mortgages, while I’ve got no freedom, no personal space, no right to speak my mind. Because my mother’s always there. A mother who won’t let go. A mother who controls my every move. And I let her do it. I know it’s my fault. I never learned to say no.
My father vanished long before I was born. Mum never mentioned him—just silence, as if he never existed. I was sickly as a child: bronchitis, measles, whooping cough, chickenpox. I never went to nursery—Mum looked after me at home. We lived with my grandparents, and they took care of us. Mum had a degree in piano teaching, but she only started working when I turned fifteen.
I was her whole world. She lived for me, breathed for me, shielded me from everything. If I fell, I wasn’t allowed outside. If I caught a cold, no ice cream. Every little thing was a threat. One step out of line, and panic set in. And I got used to it.
I finished music school, went to university, became a piano teacher—just like Mum. As a kid, I hardly had any friends. Mum wouldn’t let me mix with anyone—she thought they were “the wrong sort.” But we went to the theatre together, to concerts, read books. I lived like a heroine from a Victorian novel, minus the balls and suitors.
University didn’t change much. My grandfather helped me land a job at a music school. I liked the work, the kids were lovely, and Mum was pleased—nothing but respectable women around me, no “bad influences.” I barely had any girlfriends. Two women I tried to befriend drifted away—we couldn’t meet up, since Mum didn’t approve.
Five years ago, he appeared—the new guitar teacher. Kind. Clever. Handsome. The hero of my story. We went on a date. I was happy—for about five minutes.
First evening—Mum called every ten minutes, sent me into hysterics, the bloke got scared. Second time—I turned off my phone. When I got back, an ambulance was outside the house. Mum had phoned every hospital, the police, my colleagues. She was rushed in with a panic attack. There wasn’t a third date. For the first time, I felt real anger. I stayed at a friend’s place. She said, “Don’t go back. Or you’ll never break free.”
I ignored Mum’s calls—just texted that I was fine. She turned up at my work, made scenes, ended up in hospital again. I couldn’t take it—I went back. With guilt clinging to me like a splinter ever since. My mate begged me to stay. I didn’t listen. And from that moment, everything froze.
Now I’m thirty. Mum and I go to the theatre together, take spa breaks, have Sunday roasts just the two of us. No relationships. No friends. No freedom. Every attempt to escape sends me spiralling. I’m scared. Scared that Mum won’t survive if I leave. That if I dare, something terrible will happen. And I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll be the reason she’s gone.
I want to live my own life. But I can’t. I don’t know how to be firm. Don’t know how to choose myself. I’m terrified I’ll end up like her—lonely, trapped, broken. More and more, I think there’s no way out.
