I still can’t understand the exact moment everything fell apart. How the woman who’d been my rock, my confidante, my guide—could so easily cast me aside for a man. A man who wasn’t worth a shadow of who she once was.
Mum had me late, at thirty. Always said I was her purpose, her anchor, her “child for herself.” I never knew my father—just a blank space on my birth certificate, and not once did she even whisper his name. We lived simply but warmly. No luxuries, but plenty of love. She worked as an accountant; in the evenings, we baked biscuits, watched telly, talked about everything. I truly believed nothing could break us. She never dated, never brought anyone home. Her world was me. Until I turned fifteen—that’s when the idyll ended.
Then he showed up. Darren. A colleague from another department. She came home one evening with this glow about her—I knew instantly. Within weeks, there were dates, hushed phone calls, new dresses. I was happy for her—honestly. But that gnawing dread in my gut? I should’ve listened.
One day, she just announced it: “We’re moving in with Darren. He’s got a two-bed—you’ll have your own room.” I argued, not out of jealousy. Something felt off. He barely acknowledged 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—him in his space, me in mine, her stuck in the middle. Then they married. A week before my A-levels. That’s when the mask slipped. Darren wasn’t just cold—he was vicious. The insults, the demands, the ridiculous accusations.
“Two women in this house and no decent meal? She’s at school—where the hell are you?” he’d snap. “Dressed up like that, off chasing men, are you?”
He’d scream, forbid her from leaving, rifle through her messages, throw her phone. She’d cry, he’d turn up with flowers—and the cycle repeated. I begged her: “Let’s go. I’m with you, you’re not alone.” But she’d just wipe her tears. “You don’t understand. You’re still a child. I love him.”
Love him? So much that he eventually forbade her from paying my university fees. Mum had rented out our old flat, saved for years. I’d dreamed of studying law—studied day and night. When I missed the cutoff for grants, I hoped she’d help.
But Darren shut it down:
“A woman’s place is in the kitchen. I’m not funding her degree. Marry rich—then study all you like.”
I exploded. Told him exactly what I thought. Packed my things and left. Mum? Didn’t even try to stop me. Called me ungrateful. Said I owed him an apology.
I didn’t apologise. We haven’t spoken since. Not a word. She’s become him—his words, his mannerisms, even his cruel, crude jokes. When she calls—if she calls—it’s all ice. Like I’m not her daughter, just some distant acquaintance.
I’ve stopped fighting. The woman who loved me, baked scones, 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 letting 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.
