“You’re Not My Mother Anymore”: How a Daughter Betrayed the Woman Who Gave Her Everything
When I gave birth to Emily, I was barely twenty—still a girl myself. Naive, hopelessly in love with her father. He left when she wasn’t even a year old—just packed his things and vanished. Said he wasn’t ready, that life was just beginning. I was left alone, with no support, no parents—my mum had passed young, and my dad had walked out on us when I was little.
I worked two jobs, lived in a cramped flat, and Emily was often ill. I carried her from one doctor to another, queued for hours, sometimes dozing off on clinic benches. There was no time for me—my whole world was her. Buying myself a dress meant skipping her medicine. A date meant leaving her with someone else, and I didn’t trust anyone.
Emily grew up bright. Top of her class. I scraped together money for tutors, courses, and clubs. I cried at night when she struggled. When she got into medical school on a scholarship, I celebrated harder than she did.
Then everything changed.
In her second year, she met Daniel—ten years older, divorced, with a child. I was stunned.
“Emily, are you sure? He’s not right for you.”
“Stay out of my life! I’m not a child anymore!” she snapped.
Each month, she pulled further away. Daniel could do no wrong in her eyes. It was always someone else’s fault—his ex-wife was spiteful, his job was unfair, people were jealous. And me? The controlling mother who ruined her life. That’s what he told her.
I tried to stay quiet. But one day, I couldn’t.
“He’s using you. Manipulating you. This isn’t love.”
“You’re just jealous! You never had a man like him, so you’re bitter!”
It cut deep.
A year later, she announced they were getting married. Moving in with him.
I helped pack her things, bought her a quilt, kitchenware. 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 barely saw her. I called. I texted. Replies grew shorter, then stopped. She blocked my number.
A friend told me Daniel had poisoned her against me—said I was toxic, that I’d ruined her childhood, that I’d made her weak.
Two years passed. I bumped into her at a supermarket. She was with him. Tired eyes, tense shoulders.
“Emily, love—” I stepped closer.
“Don’t,” she hissed. “You’re not my mother anymore.”
She walked away.
I stood between shelves of cereal, my whole body shaking. All those years—sleepless nights, hospital vigils, skipped meals, the exhaustion—erased. Ripped from her life like a torn-out page.
I don’t know if she’ll ever come back. If she’ll remember me sitting by her bed when she was sick. Going hungry so she could have books. Sacrificing everything for her future.
But I do know this: I’m her mother. Even if she denies it, that won’t change. And I’ll keep loving her—even from where it doesn’t hurt anymore.
