Mum is entirely immersed in my life and the lives of my children, endlessly imposing her opinions…
I’ve been married for ten years, with my husband we’re a devout family, raising three children. When I got married, I left a small town near Birmingham where I lived with my mum and grandmother. After my grandmother passed, Mum was left on her own. She used to visit us, though she managed on her own with work. But a few years back, everything changed. Her health began deteriorating—blood pressure issues, aching joints—and, worried for her, I insisted she move closer. She agreed. She had always lived with her mother, single, and I couldn’t bear her solitude. We rented her a flat nearby in the suburbs, covering the costs ourselves, and even found her a job to keep her grounded.
Instead of gratitude, it’s become a burden pressing more heavily each day. Mum hasn’t just moved near; she’s absorbed every part of my life and my children’s lives. In the past, when she visited, things were bearable: she delighted in her grandchildren, helped out, went home. Now, it’s like she’s entwined into every corner of our lives. Her presence feels suffocating, her relentless control and intrusive care are unbearable. She has her own views, her own rules that she stubbornly tries to push onto me and the children, disregarding our beliefs, our traditions, our way of life. She doesn’t see boundaries—neither mine nor my children’s.
Everything I do is wrong. I’m raising the kids incorrectly, feeding them the wrong things, saying the wrong words. She must know every detail: what we ate, where we went, what we discussed. She quizzes our babysitters, sniffing out details like a detective, and then unloads her “wise” advice on me. With each passing year, our bond crumbles, turning into strained nerves and endless disputes. I’ve been living with it for too long, and it has broken me. I’m irritable, sharp at home, and I’ve started doubting myself as a mother. Her shadow looms over me constantly, even when she’s not there—I hear her voice, her criticisms, her sighs.
I’ve tried setting boundaries, limiting her visits, citing the children’s activities and my busy schedule. But it doesn’t help—she finds ways to intrude. She disapproves of my husband, looking at him with disdain, as if he stands in the way of her reclaiming something similar to the life she had with her mother when she raised me alone. Sometimes she showers me with complaints: “I’m useless to anyone; a burden, you’re abandoning me.” And I’m drowning in it—lost on how to be kind, how to stay myself, how not to scream in despair. Every conversation with her leaves me feeling drained, completely empty.
She insists it’s all my exaggeration, that it’s just her love for me, so strong, so selfless. And it’s driving me insane. I want to be a good daughter, but I can’t—her “love” is choking me, a noose around my neck. I don’t want to see her, and that feeling rips my heart, followed by guilt as heavy as a stone. After each call, I sit in silence, trying to gather myself, but I can’t.
Now, there’s a glimmer of hope—my husband has been offered a job abroad, and we’re planning the move. It’s like a ray of light in the dark: I see a chance to breathe freely, to finally live my own life. But my heart aches—it feels like betrayal to leave Mum here alone. She’s not getting younger, and what if her health deteriorates? What if she suffers and I’m too far to help? The thought torments me day and night.
But living near her is no longer an option. I need space, distance—a different city, a different country, where she can only visit rather than embed into our life like roots in the ground. I dream of the day when her shadow no longer hangs over me, but fear and a sense of duty hold me captive. Is it right to leave her behind? Worse still, am I concealing how deeply I desire this? What if her solitude becomes her pain, and I’m to blame? I feel terrible, torn between love for her and a yearning for freedom. This choice feels like a knife to the heart, and I’m unsure if I have the strength to make it.
