Id always believed that between my mum and me, there were no secrets. Or at least, almost none.
We were able to chat openly about anything: my childhood fears, my first little triumphs, and my heartbreak at sixteen.
After I got married, I thought the thread of trust between us hadnt snapped but had only strengthened.
Mum was rather fond of my husband. She used to say Oliver was the real deal. When our little Lucy was born, she absolutely lit up with joy. Shed bring veg from her allotment, buy Lucy endless clothes, and dote on her endlessly.
I remember telling Oliver,
See? Weve got the best mum in the world,
and hed grin and nod in agreement.
And then, by complete accident, I discovered that the best mum in the world had all these years been carrying around a ticking time bomb made of disappointment and resentment. I was floored.
It happened one autumn. Mum arrived, as usual, with the car boot bursting with allotment goodiescarrots, greens, apples, jars of chutney.
Why on earth have you brought so much? I sighed, helping unload everything. Its only Lucy and me. Olivers away, remember?
Share it with the neighbours or your friends, she waved off, planting a kiss on Lucys head. And besides, only the very best and most natural food for my granddaughter!
I went off to the kitchen to pop the kettle on, while Mum disappeared with Lucy to settle her for a nap.
About ten minutes later, I went to check in on them and froze in the corridor. From the living room, I could hear Mums voicelow, anxious, and somehow… unfamiliar.
Im not complaining, Helen, my heart just aches, honestly. How can they live like that? He works away and brings home a pittance. And she… Just sitting about. Can you imagine? The babys nearly two, shouldve been in nursery ages ago while she goes back to work. But oh noshe fusses, Lucys still too young, not ready yet. Lazy. Sitting on my neck and dangling their legs, thats what theyre doing. What? Of course I help. I buy them clothes, bring food, and they dont say no nowtheyre used to it. I do understand, but where does it lead? And its not even like theyre so in love… In fact, Olivers changed, hes gone cold, barely pays attention to her. No, she never complains, but I can see…
My ears rang. The floor seemed to vanish beneath me. I stood pressed against the chilly wall, listening as my own mother shredded my life into pitiful, grey dust.
Pittance. Sitting on my neck. Cold. Each word stung like a lash. I couldnt help but look at my handsthe same hands I spent all day carrying, feeding, cradling my daughter with, cleaning, cooking, making silly playdough creatures… The hands of a lazy woman.
The poisonous flow continued in the living room. Mum went on and on with her suspicions, said Id let myself go and that I didnt want anything anymore. At last, I couldnt take it. Quiet as a thief, I crept back to the bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the bed, head in my hands. Lucys soft breathing from her cot was the only anchor to reality in my suddenly upended world.
What was I to do? Burst in, scream, cry? Tell her to leave? I was utterly numb. Total, frozen emptiness. And so I did what two years of motherhood had taught me: switched to autopilotwiped my face, took a long breath, calmed myself, and headed to the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, Mum finally ended her call. She came in beaming, as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders.
Oh, sorry, I got caught up with Helen! she said, sitting at the table. And Lucy nodded off on her own while I was putting her dolly to bed. Oh dear, my teas gone completely cold…
I poured her fresh tea. My hand didnt tremble.
What were you two going on about for so long? I asked, keeping it light, Nearly forty minutes! Is something up?
Mum perked up, eyes sparkling. That old sparkle Id once thought meant she genuinely cared about people.
Would you believe it, Helens daughter-in-lawwhats her name… Marywants a new car! And Helens gutted because her son spends all their money on her, and didnt even bother to ring his mum at Christmas. Kids these daysno respect!
There was a sugary sympathy in Mums voice and that same righteous disapproval shed only moments before been turning on me.
The falseness of it nearly made me ill.
Why do you gossip? I asked, more quietly than Id intended, Is it any of your business? Mary might have a hundred reasons!
Mums expression changed in an instant. The sparkle faded into wounded dignity.
What gossip? she replied frostily. Shes my friendI have to support her, listen to her. You dont understand how it works between close people.
The irony of that nearly finished me off. Close people…
I looked at her and, for the first time, saw not my mother, but a stranger. A woman who needed drama to feel alive. A woman who, perhaps for years, had been quietly frustrated that my life wasnt the ideal life shed mapped out for me.
And all those baskets of veg and random jumpers? They werent just gifts of love, they were payment for her right to judge. I help, therefore I get to criticise.
I wanted to tell her all of this. But I held back. There was no pointMum seemed to have realised shed been caught out. She left, slamming the door with wounded dignity. I was left alone in the flats silence. The emptiness turned to anger, then pain, then a strange, piercing clarity.
I remembered her younger days. I remembered how shed raised me single-handed after Dad left. How proud shed been when she got a decent job. And how her greatest worry had always been, What will people say?
Shed built her whole life on fighting for status, for respect, to appear fine to the world. And my lifea warm, loving, modest home, my choice to stay with my child instead of chasing after a careerwas a silent rebuke to her. A mark of weakness, a failure. Nothing to boast to Aunt Jean or Helen about. She wanted a success story; Id given her an ordinary one.
The next day she texted: Sorry if I upset you yesterday. You know I love you.
The usual cop-out. In the past, Id have rushed to make up. NowI just set the phone aside and didnt respond. The real follow-up, though not as Id wished, came a week later.
Helen herselfMums friend Mrs. Ellen Brownknocked on my door. She made awkward excuses about having business nearby. Clearly she hoped I wouldnt twig she was Mums envoy.
We drank tea, played with Lucy. Suddenly, watching Lucy build her ring stack, Ellen sighed,
Its lovely here So peaceful. Cosy. Nothing like a dead end.
I said nothing. She gazed out the window for a while.
My son and his wife are miles away. Very successful. Mortgages, loans, always scrambling. I see my grandson maybe twice a year. But you youre here. Living. Your mumshes just afraid.
Afraid of what? I couldnt help asking.
That you dont need her. That all her experience, her struggleno one cares. You chose a different way, and she feels its a reproach. Its easier for her to find fault with your life and talk about it, than to admit youre simply happy in your own way. And those vegetables well, theyre the only bridge she knows, the only way she allows herself to be a judge and not a mere onlooker.
I listened and saw before me not an enemy, but a woman just as lost. Perhaps even tired of playing her part in Mums never-ending soap opera.
Why are you telling me this? I asked softly.
So you dont hold a grudge. Your mum shes just lost. Give her time. But set boundaries. Firmly.
Ellen Brown left, and Id finally learned something vital: my mums perception was her reality. Not mine.
Mine was Oliver, who, when he comes back from work trips, wraps Lucy and me in a hug and whispers, Ive missed you like mad.
Its our own little flat, our mortgage were slogging through with no ones help. Its my right to decide when to return to work, or if my little girl, so attached to me, should go to nursery or not. Its my right to live my life, with no apologies to anyone else.
I didnt confront Mum. I just quietly started to build new boundaries. Stopped sharing things she might twist against me.
When she drops her familiar jibes (Everyone else is back at work by now!), I just calmly reply,
Oliver and I have got it all worked out, dont worry.
When she tries to dump another pile of unnecessary gifts on us, I say, Thanks, but best if you just choose one lovely puzzle and give it to Lucy yourself next time you visit.
Im gently nudging her out of the roles of sponsor and judge, and back into the role of grandma. Its hard. She resists, gets offended.
But sometimesthough very rarely yetwhen we bake biscuits together and Lucy covers us both in flour, I catch Mums eye and see not a stern judge, but just a grandmother, besotted with her granddaughter.
Perhaps that little floury, sugary, laughter-filled bridge is the one thatll save us.
***
Ive learned this lesson for life.
The deepest, most painful wounds are never dealt by our enemies, but by those we expect to protect us. And after such a wound, the most important thing isnt to grow bitter, but to bind yourself up with the truth about who you are. That you arent the picture someone else draws in their head. You are a real person, entitled to your own, not-perfect-but-true life.
***
When I told Oliver everything, he just hugged me and said,
How about next month, we take a trip away? Lets show our little princess the sea. The real, living sea!
And in his eyes, I saw that elusive something Mum always claimed we lacked. Not a dropbut an ocean.
