When I had Lily, I was just twenty. Still a girl myself—naive, yet hopelessly in love with her father. He walked out when she wasn’t even a year old. Packed his bags and vanished. Said he wasn’t ready, that life was just beginning. I was left alone, with no support, no family—Mum had passed young, and Dad had abandoned us long before.
I worked two jobs, lived in a cramped flat, and Lily was often ill. I carried her to doctors, queued for hours, sometimes dozing off on clinic benches. There was no time for myself. I lived only for her. Buying a dress meant skipping her medicine. Going on a date meant leaving her with someone, and I trusted no one.
Lily grew up bright. Top of her class. I scraped together money for tutors, courses, clubs. Cried at night when she struggled. Celebrated harder than she did when she got into medical school on a scholarship.
Then everything changed.
In her second year, she met James. Ten years older, divorced, with a child. I was stunned.
“Lily, are you sure? He’s not right for you.”
“Stop interfering! I’m not a child anymore!” she snapped.
With every month, she pulled further away. James could do no wrong in her eyes. Everyone else was to blame—his ex-wife was cruel, his job unfair, people jealous. And I? The controlling mother who’d ruined her life. That’s what he told her.
I bit my tongue. But one day, I cracked.
“He’s using you. He’s manipulative. This isn’t love.”
“You’re just jealous! You never had a man like him, so you can’t stand it!”
It cut deep.
A year later, she announced they were marrying. Moving in with him.
I helped her pack, bought her a quilt, dishes. When we said goodbye, she didn’t even hug me.
“Don’t pretend you care. You always wanted me gone,” she whispered.
And she left.
After the wedding, I saw her rarely. I called. I wrote. Replies grew shorter. Then she blocked my number.
A friend told me James had poisoned her against me—said I was toxic, that I’d ruined her childhood, that I’d made her helpless.
Two years passed. I spotted her by chance in Tesco. She was with him. Tired, hollow-eyed, tense.
“Lily, love—” I approached.
“Don’t,” she hissed. “You’re not my mother anymore.”
And she walked away.
I stood between shelves of cereal, my whole body trembling. All those years—sleepless nights, fevers, hospital tears, skipped meals—erased. Ripped from her life like a page torn from a notebook.
I don’t know if she’ll ever return. If she’ll remember me at her bedside when she was ill. Skipping meals to buy her books. Giving up everything so she could have a future.
But I know this: I am her mother. Even if she denies it, that truth won’t change. And I’ll love her anyway—even from where it no longer hurts.
Sometimes love means holding on, even when the other lets go.
