My mum used to charge me rent for my own childhood bedroom, and now she expects me to support her—years later, I finally spoke my mind.
When I turned eighteen, Mum didn’t hesitate. “You’re an adult now,” she said, completely deadpan. “Either start paying for the room or find your own place.” No anger, no heat—just cold, matter-of-fact, like billing your own daughter for the right to exist in the house she grew up in was completely normal. At the time, I didn’t even realise how much it hurt, hearing that from someone I’d loved without question my whole life.
For as long as I can remember, Mum made it clear the house was *hers*. Even when I was seven or eight, she’d say, “You don’t get a say here. This is *my* home.” She’d barge into my room without knocking, rifle through my things, wouldn’t let me move a single piece of furniture. I used to beg to move my bed because it was right next to the radiator—I’d wake up dizzy, sweating, with a pounding headache. She’d just say I was making it up. Only when I threw up one day and the doctor warned about heatstroke did she finally let me shift it.
Like any kid, I loved my mum. For way too long, I believed love meant putting up with things. That if I was just *good enough*, she’d finally see me. But Mum only saw what was convenient for her. If I stayed quiet, didn’t make waves, didn’t ask for anything—it was like I didn’t exist.
After school, I got into university in our hometown. Mum didn’t even show up to my graduation. But the day I turned eighteen, she walked into my room with her “offer”: pay up or get out. “I raised you, fed you, clothed you—my job’s done.” I was stunned. No job, no other family. So I agreed.
The next day, I started washing dishes on the night shift at a café near the train station. Mornings were lectures. Sleep was a luxury. Every penny went to “renting” my own childhood bedroom from Mum and the cheapest food I could find. Those first months were hell. But then I got promoted to kitchen assistant. A glimmer of hope—and then, Daniel.
He was a waiter, renting a tiny place, fresh from the countryside. We barely had time to see each other—both of us working brutal hours. But every stolen minute with him felt precious. One night, I told him about my mum. He listened in disbelief. “We never had much,” he said, “but my parents would give me the last carrot from the garden if I needed it. They’d *want* me to have it.”
He couldn’t take it anymore—asked me to move in with him. Splitting rent would be cheaper. I didn’t even think. Said yes on the spot. When we packed up my things, Mum didn’t say a single kind word. Just hovered to make sure I didn’t “steal” her saucepan or a stool. Even kept my bedsheets. At the door, she muttered about changing the locks. Then she shut it behind me without another word.
Daniel and I made a life together. A year later, we got married. First, we stayed with his parents, then rented a little house nearby, then bought it. Two kids, a home, a proper family. Work, love, a future—everything I’d ever wanted.
Ten years passed. Then, six months ago, Mum called. I’d never changed my number, so she got through. She acted like we’d spoken last week. “Why don’t you call? Why don’t you visit?” Then, cutting me off, she got to the point: no job, pension not kicking in yet. “You *owe* me. I raised you. Now it’s your turn.”
My hands shook as I listened. And for the first time in my life—I told her everything. About her “care,” about paying for my own childhood, about the loneliness, the hurt. My voice cracked, but I didn’t stop until there was nothing left to say. And her? Silence. Then, ice-cold: “Fine. Whatever. Just send the money.”
I hung up. Blocked her number. But she called from others. Messaged. Threatened legal action. Demanded support.
I don’t feel guilty anymore. I *don’t* owe her. I don’t owe anyone. And for the first time, saying that out loud doesn’t terrify me.
