My mother lives solely for my life and that of my children, endlessly imposing her opinions…
I’ve been married for ten years, and my husband and I are a family of faith, raising three children. When I got married, I left a small town near Manchester where I lived with my mum and grandmother. After my grandmother passed, Mum was left alone and often felt lonely. She visited us frequently but managed to cope with her work and daily life. However, things changed a few years ago. Her health began to falter—her blood pressure was unsteady, and she had joint pains. Fearing for her wellbeing, I insisted she move closer to us. She agreed. Having lived alone with her mum without a partner, I couldn’t bear the thought of her being alone. We rented her a flat not far from our home in the suburbs, taking care of the rent and even found her a job so she wouldn’t feel lost.
But instead of gratitude, I was met with a burden that grows heavier each day. Mum didn’t just move—she enveloped my life and the lives of my children. Previously, her visits were manageable: she enjoyed her grandchildren, helped out, and then left. Now, it’s as if she’s dissolved into our lives, our home, and every step we take. Her presence suffocates me; her overbearing involvement and constant interference have become unbearable. She has her ideas and rules, which she relentlessly imposes on me and the children, ignoring our faith, our traditions, and our way of life. It’s as if she sees no boundaries—neither mine nor the children’s.
Everything I do is wrong. I am raising the children poorly, feeding them incorrectly, and telling them the wrong things. She insists on knowing our every move: what we ate, where we went, what we talked about. She interrogates our nannies like a detective and then bombards me with her “wise” advice. Each year, I feel our relationship deteriorating into strained nerves and endless arguments. I’ve lived with this for too long, and it’s broken me. I’ve become irritable and harsh at home, doubting myself as a mother. Her shadow looms over me constantly, even when she’s not around—I hear her voice, her criticisms, her sighs.
I’ve tried setting boundaries, limiting her visits by citing the children’s activities and our busy schedule. But it doesn’t help—she still finds ways to interfere. She disapproves of my husband, looking at him with disdain, as if he prevents her from completely taking over my life and the children, wanting to recreate the life she had when she raised me alone with my grandmother. At times, she floods me with complaints: “I’m not needed, I’m a burden, you’re abandoning me.” And I am overwhelmed—I don’t know how to be kind, how to remain myself, how not to scream from the frustration. Every conversation with her leaves me feeling as drained as a squeezed lemon, utterly empty.
She insists I’m exaggerating, claiming it’s all her love for me, so strong and sacrificial. But I am going mad. I want to be a good daughter, but I can’t—her “love” is suffocating me like a noose. I don’t want to see her, and this feeling tears at my heart because it comes with guilt, heavy as a stone. After every call, I sit in silence, trying to piece myself back together, but I can’t.
Now, hope for escape has appeared—my husband has been offered a job overseas, and we are planning to move. It feels like a ray of light in the darkness: I see a chance to break free, to finally live my own life. But leaving Mum here, alone, feels like a betrayal. She’s not getting any younger, and what if her health gets worse? What if she suffers while I’m far away and unable to help? This thought torments me day and night.
But living near her is no longer possible for me. I need space, distance—to be in another city, another country, where she can only visit occasionally, not embed herself into our lives like roots in the ground. I dream of the day her shadow no longer hangs over me, but fear and a sense of duty hold me in their grip. Am I doing the right thing by leaving her behind? And worse—hiding how much I truly want it? What if her loneliness becomes her burden, and it’s my fault? I feel terrible, torn between my love for her and my longing for freedom. This choice is a dagger to my heart, and I don’t know if I have the strength to make it.
