When I was 24, I made the hardest decision of my life: I left my two daughters with my mother. The eldest was five, the youngest only three. I was working twelve-hour shifts, had no one else to turn to, my savings barely stretched to the end of the week, and their father had abandoned us long before. I was desperatelost, reallyunable to see a way forward. My mother offered to take care of them until I got back on my feet, and, young and terrified as I was, I accepted, thinking it would only be for a handful of months. But months turned into years.
At first, Id visit every Saturday and Sunday. They were still little, not quite understanding why I didnt sleep in the same house. Every visit was a tangle of cuddles and impossible questions, ones I couldnt answer without breaking apart:
Why dont you stay?
Why do you sleep somewhere else?
When are you coming home?
Mum told them I was working very hard, but the truth was, I watched helplessly as they slowly began to call her Mum without even realising it.
By the time my eldest turned eight and the youngest six, they no longer ran to me for comfort. Their hugs would last only a second before they darted back to my mother. Id stand there, motionless, feeling more like a visitor than a mother. One afternoon, the youngest fell while playing, and as I reached out to pick her up, she yanked her hand away, shouting, I love Mummy! meaning, of course, my mother. In that moment, I knew that something had broken that could never be repaired.
The years went on, and I kept trying to win them back in any way I could: clothes, presents, sweets, outingsanything. But every time I came, theyd greet me with a quick hello and scurry off to their games. My mother, with no bad intentions, made all the decisions: school, immunisations, chores, permissions. I was the one bringing things, not the one who really mattered.
They grew up seeing me as the aunt who brings gifts, not the woman who gave them life.
Once they started school, it grew even more painful. At parents evenings, the teachers would talk only with my mum. Theyd glance at me and ask, Are you the aunt? And my daughters never corrected them.
Once, I tried to sign a permission slip, but my eldest whispered to me,
No, you cant. Mummy has to sign it.
That day, I went into the school bathroom and cried quietly, trying not to make a sound.
When they were older, I tried to explain why I wasnt there. I told them about my struggles, what I went through, how I fought just to keep going. They listened, silent, but nothing changed.
My eldest said she wasnt sure if she should thank me or resent me because she didnt really feel anything anymore.
The youngest was more blunt:
You werent there. I cant make up a feeling that doesnt exist.
Now, Im 61. My daughters speak to me, visit at Christmas and Easter, give me a hug but they dont call me Mum. Im part of their lives, but not in the way I was meant to be.
And though I know the past cant be changed, it still hurts. It hurts to see how their lives went on without me.
