When I gave birth to Emily, I was only twenty. Still a girl myself—naive, but hopelessly in love with her father. He left when she wasn’t even a year old. Just packed up and vanished. Said he wasn’t ready, that life was just beginning. I was left alone, with no support, no family—Mum had passed early, and Dad had walked out on us when I was little.
I worked two jobs, lived in a cramped flat, and Emily was often poorly. I carried her to doctors, queued for hours, sometimes dozed 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 didn’t trust anyone.
Emily grew up clever. Top of her class. I scraped together money for tutors, courses, clubs. Cried at night when she struggled. Cheered louder than she did when she got into medical school on a full scholarship.
Then things started to change.
In her second year, she met a man—James. 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.
Every month, she drifted further. James could do no wrong. Everyone else was to blame—his ex-wife was spiteful, his job unfair, people jealous. And me? The controlling mother who’d ruined her life. That’s what he told her.
I bit my tongue. But one day, I couldn’t hold back.
“He’s using you. He’s manipulative. This isn’t love.”
“You’re jealous! You never had a man like him, so you’re bitter!”
It cut deep.
A year later, she announced they were marrying. Moving in with him.
I helped pack her things, bought her a quilt, dishes. When we said goodbye, she didn’t even hug me.
“Don’t pretend this is hard for you. You always wanted me gone,” she whispered.
And she left.
After the wedding, I rarely saw her. I called. I messaged. Replies grew shorter. Then she blocked my number.
A friend told me James had convinced her—I was toxic, controlling, the reason she couldn’t live properly. That I’d ruined her childhood.
Two years passed. I spotted her by chance in Tesco. With him. Exhausted, hollow-eyed, tense.
“Emily, love—” I stepped closer.
“Don’t,” she hissed. “You’re not my mum anymore.”
And she walked away.
I stood between the cereal aisles, my whole body shaking. All those years—nights awake, fevers, hospitals, tears, skipped meals—gone. Ripped from her life like a crumpled page.
I don’t know if she’ll come back. 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.
I only know this: I’m her mother. Even if she denies it, that won’t change. And I’ll love her anyway. Even from where it doesn’t hurt anymore.
