I still can’t pinpoint the exact moment everything went pear-shaped. How could the woman who’d been my rock, my confidante, my guiding light all my life—just like that—scratch it all out and betray me? All for a man. A man who wasn’t worth a shadow of the woman she used to be.
Mum had me late, at 30. Always said I was her purpose, her pride, her “child for keeps.” No father on the birth certificate—just a blank line—and not once did she ever let slip who he might’ve been. We lived modestly but cosily. No fancy things, just love. She worked as an accountant, and in the evenings, we’d bake biscuits, binge telly, and chatter about everything under the sun. I was sure we were unbreakable. She never dated, never brought anyone home—her world revolved around me. Until I turned fifteen, it was pure bliss.
Then he showed up. Gavin. A bloke from the next department over. One day, she came home with stars in her eyes, and I just knew: someone new had walked into her life. Within weeks, there were dates, hushed phone calls, new dresses. I was happy for her—truly. But there was this gnawing unease. And for good reason.
One day, she dropped the bombshell: “We’re moving in with Gavin. His two-bed flat—you’ll have your own room.” I tried to argue—not out of jealousy, but because something felt off. He never spoke to me, just looked straight through me like I was part of the furniture. But Mum wouldn’t hear it. “You don’t understand, I’m happy,” was all she’d say. So I gave in.
At first, it was quiet. We coexisted like strangers—him doing his thing, me holed up in my room, Mum stuck in the middle like a buffer. Then they got married. A week before my A-levels. And everything went to pot. He changed—not that he’d ever been warm, but now he was a proper tyrant. He belittled us, barked orders, hurled ridiculous accusations.
“Two women in the house, and not a decent meal between you? She’s at school, and what’s your excuse?” he’d snarl. “Dolled up in heels, off to chase blokes, are you?”
He’d yell, forbid her from leaving the house, throw jealous fits, rifle through her texts, chuck her phone across the room. Mum would sob, then he’d show up with flowers. Rinse and repeat. A hundred times, I begged her: “Let’s leave. I’m with you. You’re not alone.” But she’d just wipe her tears and say, “You don’t understand. You’re still a child. I love him.”
Love him? So much that he eventually forbade her from paying my tuition. Mum had been renting out our old flat, saving up—I’d dreamed of studying law. I crammed day and night. When I missed the cut for government funding, I was counting on her help.
But Gavin put his foot down: “A woman’s place is in the kitchen. You expect me to pay for her degree? Marry rich—then study all you like.”
I lost it. Told him exactly what I thought. Packed my things and walked out. Mum? She didn’t even try to stop me. Called me ungrateful and said I ought to apologise to Gavin.
I didn’t. We haven’t spoken since. Not a day, not a minute. She’s vanished into him—speaks in his words, moves with his swagger, even cracks his crude, nasty jokes. When she calls, if she calls, her voice is ice. Detached. Like I’m not her daughter, just some old acquaintance.
I’ve stopped fighting. I’ve accepted that the mother I knew—the one who loved me, baked me scones, tucked me in—is gone. She died the day she chose a man over her child. Losing her left a scar. But my choice? Not to let that pain burn away what’s left of me.
Let her live her life. But when she’s alone someday—let her remember who she betrayed for a stranger.
