I’m twenty-five. I have a good job, study remotely, and try to build my life quietly but steadily on my own. I work as an assistant to the director at a large logistics company in Manchester—everything seems fine, but my heart aches because home no longer feels like home. And Mum… the Mum I knew all my life… it’s as if she’s vanished.
Mum raised me alone. I never knew my father—just a blank space on my birth certificate and a vague shadow in her memories. We were like best friends. Of course, we had our moments. I was a difficult teen—stubborn, argumentative, slamming doors—but Mum always knew how to reach me. She listened, she loved. Even in the darkest times, she was my safe haven.
A few years ago, I moved out, renting a room and living independently. But a year ago, everything fell apart. A difficult surgery, a painful breakup—I was a mess. Naturally, Mum took me in. I returned to her flat, the same one where I’d always felt safe. But I soon realized I hadn’t come back to the same home.
It all started five years ago when Mum first mentioned Simon. A colleague, older than her, respectable, polite. Then we found out—he was married. It put me off, but Mum, as naïve as a schoolgirl, insisted, “It’s over between him and his wife.” They kept seeing each other, then he left his family and moved in with us. A year later, they married.
The wedding was small—just close friends. I smiled, gave flowers, tried to accept it. But from that moment, Mum began to fade—disappearing, dissolving into someone else. The way she acted changed—subtly, but irreversibly.
We used to talk for hours late into the night, about everything—TV shows, my studies, food, the future. Now? Silence. Simon clearly wasn’t happy with me living there. His glances, his snide remarks—Mum pretended not to notice. Or maybe she really didn’t.
Bit by bit, she became a stranger. Her voice grew cold. Her mannerisms—unfamiliar. She started copying him, first in small ways—phrases, opinions. Then she began criticizing everything—my clothes, my boyfriend. She called him “a waste of time,” claimed I was “useless” because I couldn’t make a relationship work. Yet just two years earlier, she’d held me as I sobbed over heartbreak.
The worst part? She started drinking. Every evening, I’d come home to find them at the table with a bottle. Glasses, snacks, laughter—harsh, mocking, laced with bitterness. They spoke as if I wasn’t there. Sometimes, drunk and furious, she’d snap that I was “only staying temporarily,” that the flat was *hers*, and if I didn’t like it, the door wasn’t locked.
I tried talking to her—calmly, desperately—begging her to wake up. *This isn’t you.* She’d wave me off, walk away, or roll her eyes. “You’re just jealous because your life’s a mess.”
We drifted apart. No explosive fight, no final shout. Just slowly, painfully, like two lines no longer meant to cross.
Now I stand on the edge of a new life. My boyfriend proposed. We’re looking for a place. I *should* be happy, but my heart won’t settle. How do I leave Mum with the man who’s ruining her? She was never like this—cruel, bitter, indifferent. But she is now.
Walking away feels like betrayal. Staying feels like losing myself. And I still don’t know how to live with that choice.
Sometimes love means knowing when to hold on—and when to let go, even if it breaks your heart.
