I still can’t understand when things started going wrong. How could the woman who was my rock, my friend, my guiding light—just throw it all away so easily? All for a man. A man who isn’t worth a fraction of the woman she used to be.
Mum had me late, at 30. She always said I was her purpose, her reason—her “child for herself.” I never knew my father: a blank line on my birth certificate, and not once in my life did she even hint at who he might be. We lived modestly but warmly. No fancy things, just love. She worked as an accountant, and in the evenings, we’d bake biscuits, watch telly, talk about everything. I truly believed nothing could break us. She never dated, never brought anyone home—her world revolved around me. Until I turned fifteen, it was pure bliss.
Then he appeared. Gavin. A colleague from another department. She came home one day with that spark in her eyes, and I knew—someone new was in her life. Within weeks, there were dates, whispered phone calls, new dresses. I was happy for her—truly. But something gnawed at me. And I was right.
One day, she just announced it: “We’re moving in with Gavin. He’s got a two-bed flat; you’ll have your own room.” I tried to argue—not out of jealousy, but because I sensed something off. He barely spoke to me, looked straight through me like I was part of the furniture. But Mum wouldn’t listen. “You don’t understand, I’m happy,” was all she’d say. So I gave in.
At first, it was quiet. We lived like strangers—him in his space, me in mine, Mum stuck in the middle. Then they got married. A week before my A-levels. And everything fell apart. He changed—not that he’d ever been warm, but now he was a full-blown tyrant. He belittled us, barked orders, flew into rages over nothing.
“Two women in the house and not a decent meal between you?” he’d snap. “School runs and high heels—what, off to find another bloke?”
He screamed, banned her from leaving the house, read her messages, threw her phone. She’d cry, then he’d show up with flowers. Rude, warm, cruel, sweet—round and round it went. 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 eventually, he even forbade her from paying my tuition. Mum had rented out our old flat, saved every penny—I dreamed of studying law. I studied day and night, but when I missed the cutoff for a scholarship, I hoped she’d help.
Then Gavin snarled, “A woman belongs in the kitchen. You think I’m paying for her uni? Find a rich husband—then study on his dime.”
I snapped. Told him exactly what I thought. Packed my things and left. Mum… Mum didn’t stop me. Called me ungrateful. Said I should apologise to Gavin.
I didn’t. We haven’t spoken since. Not a word, not a minute. She chose him, dissolved into his cruelty. Now she speaks like him, moves like him, even laughs like him—coarse and ugly. When she calls (if she calls), her voice is cold. Distant. Like I’m not her daughter, just some old acquaintance.
I’ve stopped fighting. The mum who loved me, baked me treats, tucked me in—she’s 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—let her remember who she betrayed for a stranger.
