After her wedding, I didn’t lose my mum—just the person who once meant the world to me.
I’m twenty-five. I’ve got a decent job as an executive assistant at a logistics firm in Manchester, I’m studying part-time, and I’m slowly—albeit awkwardly—figuring out how to stand on my own two feet. On paper, everything’s fine. But home doesn’t feel like home anymore. And Mum… the woman who raised me? It’s like she’s vanished.
She brought me up single-handedly. My father? Never knew him. Birth certificate: blank. Her memories of him? Vague and distant. We were more like best friends than mother and daughter. Sure, we had our rows—I was a proper nightmare as a teen, slamming doors, rolling my eyes, giving her grief—but she always knew how to reach me. She listened. She loved me, even when I was at my worst. She was my safe place.
A few years back, I moved out—rented a room, played at being independent. Then, a year ago, everything fell apart. A messy breakup, followed by surgery, and I was a complete wreck. Of course, Mum took me in. I went back to her flat, the same one where I’d always felt safest. But I didn’t come home to the same woman.
It started five years ago when she first mentioned Edward—a colleague, older, well-spoken, respectable. Then came the bombshell: *married.* I wasn’t thrilled, but Mum, giddy as a schoolgirl, swore, “It’s been over with his wife for ages.” They carried on, he left his family, moved in with us, and a year later, they tied the knot.
The wedding was small—just family. I smiled, handed over flowers, played the part. But from that day, Mum started fading, dissolving into *him.* Her personality shifted—subtly at first, then glaringly.
We used to stay up for hours gossiping—about everything from telly to my studies, takeaways to life plans. Now? Silence. Edward clearly resented me—his pointed looks, snide remarks, petty jabs. Mum either didn’t notice or chose not to.
Soon, she wasn’t just different—she was *his.* Her voice colder, her mannerisms sharper, echoing his. First, it was little things—phrases, opinions. Then came the criticism: my clothes, my boyfriend, my life. “He’s a waste of space,” she’d say. “You’ll never make anything of yourself.” Two years ago, she’d held me while I sobbed over some idiot. Now? She sneered.
The worst part? The drinking. Every night, I’d come home to them at the table, glasses in hand, laughter thick with something bitter. They talked like I was a guest. Some nights, drunk and furious, she’d snap that I was “temporary.” 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 her to wake up. *This isn’t you.* She’d wave me off, walk away, or sigh, “You’re just jealous because your life’s a mess.”
We’ve lost each other. No big fight, no final scream—just a slow, quiet drifting apart, like two trains on separate tracks.
Now, I’m on the verge of a new chapter. My boyfriend’s proposed; we’re flat-hunting. I *should* be happy. But my heart aches. How do I leave her with the man who’s ruining her? She was never like this—harsh, cruel, indifferent. But that’s who she is now.
Leaving feels like betrayal. Staying feels like losing myself. And I still don’t know how to live with that choice.
