My mum insists I clean her house every single day. But I have my own family, kids, and life—and I can’t take it anymore.
I’m twenty-nine. I’ve been married for five years, and my husband and I have two young children. Our youngest daughter, Lily, is only three—she hasn’t started nursery yet. Every time I try to send her, she falls ill, and we end up stuck at home for weeks. So, we decided: until she’s stronger, I’ll stay home with her. Of course, the house won’t clean itself, dinner won’t cook itself, and the children won’t raise themselves.
Every day is a marathon—endless dishes, laundry, toys, nappies, tantrums, and helping our eldest, Oliver, with his schoolwork. I pour my heart into them, hour after hour, teaching, guiding, loving. By evening, my legs ache like I’ve spent a full day on a building site.
But my mother doesn’t see it.
It’s as if she couldn’t care less that I have my own family, my own responsibilities, my own children. She calls daily, only to scold me. Never asks how I am. Never checks on her grandchildren. Just accusations:
—”Were you lazing about watching TV again?”
—”Too busy scrolling online?”
—”Why haven’t you visited me?”
—”Why didn’t you clean my kitchen?”
—”When will you bring the shopping?”
She lives on the other side of London. In traffic, it’s a nightmare—and I have to drag both kids along because there’s no one to watch them. By the time I get there, listen to how “lazy” and “useless” I am, and do all her chores, it’s evening, and I’m wiped out. Who’s going to clean *my* house? Who’s going to feed *my* children?
I tried explaining—it’s too much. I’m drowning as it is. But all I get is guilt, tears, blame:
—”You’re selfish!”
—”I’m struggling, and you’ve abandoned me!”
—”Other daughters help their mothers—what’s wrong with you?”
But where’s *her* help? Since my kids were born, she’s never once come over just to spend time with them. Never once said, “Love, take a break—I’ll watch them.”
When I came home from the hospital after giving birth, she visited—not to help, but like a guest expecting to be waited on. I could barely stand, and there she sat, waiting for me to serve her. Too “awkward,” apparently, to even grab something from the fridge. I hobbled around with stitches, just to avoid hearing how “messy” and “hopeless” I was.
Then came the complaints:
—”The soup’s too greasy.”
—”Too much salt.”
—”Where’s the proper table setting?”
Nothing’s changed. She never visits. Never asks about me. Only calls to berate me. Demands I come daily to clean her house. But I have no energy left. I’m not made of steel.
A few weeks ago, we had a huge row. I snapped—said everything I’d bottled up for years. She hasn’t called since. And honestly? I haven’t called either. And I’m… happy.
For the first time in years, I feel free. Calm. At peace. I can breathe without dreading her next call. I don’t feel guilty for living my own life.
If I’d known how simple it was, I’d have stood up to her years ago. I don’t owe devotion to someone who doesn’t respect me. That’s not love—it’s control.
Now I know: I don’t have to prove I’m worth being her daughter. I’m a good mother, a good wife, a good person. If she can’t see that? That’s her problem.
Let her live her life. I’m needed in mine—and that’s all that matters.
