After her wedding, I didn’t lose my mum—I lost the person who was closest to me.
I’m twenty-five. I’ve got a decent job, I’m studying part-time, and I’m trying, somewhat awkwardly but determinedly, to build my own life. I work as an executive assistant at a big logistics company in Manchester. On paper, everything’s fine. But my heart aches because home doesn’t feel like home anymore. And Mum… the Mum I’ve known my whole life seems to have vanished.
Mum raised me on her own. I never knew my dad—just a blank space on my birth certificate and a vague shadow in her stories. We were more like friends than mother and daughter. Sure, we had our moments. I was a right handful as a teenager—moody, argumentative, slamming doors—but she always knew how to handle me. She listened. She loved. Even in the darkest times, she was my safe harbour.
A few years back, I moved out—rented a room, tried living independently. But then, a year ago, things fell apart. A tough surgery, a bad breakup, and I just crumbled. Of course, Mum took me in. I went back to her flat—the same one where I’d always felt safe. Only, it wasn’t the same place anymore.
It started about five years ago when Mum first mentioned John. A colleague, older than her, polished, polite. Then came the bombshell—he was married. It rubbed me the wrong way, but Mum, like a lovestruck teenager, insisted, *”His marriage has been over for years.”* They kept seeing each other, he left his wife, and eventually moved in with us. A year later, they tied the knot.
The wedding was small, just close friends and family. I smiled, handed over flowers, tried to be supportive. But from that day, Mum began fading—disappearing into him. Her behaviour shifted, subtle at first, then unmistakable.
We used to talk for hours, late into the night. About anything—telly, my studies, food, the future. Now? Silence. John clearly wasn’t thrilled about me being around. The looks, the snide remarks, the little digs—Mum either didn’t notice or chose not to.
Slowly, she became someone else. Her voice turned chilly. Her mannerisms borrowed from him. First, it was just phrases, opinions. Then, the criticism started—my clothes, my boyfriend, everything. She called him *”a waste of space,”* said I was *”a mess”* for not settling down properly. Funny, considering two years earlier, she’d held me while I sobbed over some idiot who’d broken my heart.
The worst part? She started drinking. Every evening, I’d come home from work to find them at the table, bottles lined up, laughing—a hard, bitter sound, like they resented me being there. Sometimes, drunk and furious, she’d snap that I was *”just a guest.”* That the flat was *hers,* and if I didn’t like it, the door wasn’t locked.
I tried talking to her. Calmly, painfully, begging—*Wake up. This isn’t you.* She’d wave me off, roll her eyes. *”You’re just jealous because your life’s a shambles.”*
We lost each other. No explosive row, no final scream. Just a slow, quiet drifting apart, like two lines that’ll never cross again.
Now, I’m on the edge of a new life. My boyfriend proposed. We’re flat-hunting. I should be happy, but my heart hurts. How do I leave Mum with someone who’s changing her? She was never like this—harsh, bitter, indifferent. But here we are.
Leaving feels like betrayal. Staying feels like betraying myself. And right now, I’ve no idea how to live with that.
