I’m 38 years old, and I’m still afraid of my own mother. It eats me alive.
Every year, I stare into the mirror harder, trying to remind myself who I am. A woman who’s achieved a lot—a university degree, a high-ranking position at a major logistics firm in Manchester, a stable marriage, even if we’ve chosen not to have children together. My husband, William, is my anchor—someone I love and respect deeply—and his son from his first marriage, Oliver, has long felt like my own. By all appearances, it’s a good life. Comfort, stability. You’d think I’d be content. But inside me, there’s fear. Not some vague, childish dread, but something real, physical. Fear of my own mother.
I’m 38. I run a department, solve complex problems, negotiate with partners, hire and fire people. Yet the moment she appears—my mother—everything crumbles. My knees buckle, my throat tightens, my palms go icy, and my mind floods with scenes from childhood: her yanking the blanket off me and dragging me by the hair because I hadn’t washed the dishes fast enough. Her hurling a slipper at me when I came home late from school. Her mocking laughter in front of yet another boyfriend, comparing me to other girls. Her three marriages were hell on earth. My father vanished into thin air, and I don’t even know if he’s alive. Over the years, she’s only grown harsher, crueller.
William sees it all. He doesn’t just suspect—he’s witnessed it. The way I freeze at the sound of her voice on the phone. The way I stutter when she shows up unannounced. He’s suggested therapy, told me I need to unload this weight. But I can’t. Me, a grown woman, a department head—terrified of looking weak. Going to a therapist feels like admitting defeat. I’ve spent my whole life pretending to be unbreakable. The irony? This “unbreakable” woman only needs one call from her mother to turn into a trembling little girl.
At first, she’d visit “just for a couple of days.” Then those days stretched into weeks. She’d arrive with bags, rifle through our cupboards, snoop in our documents, even peeked at my laptop once. Over dinner, she once asked William, cool as anything:
*”How many mistresses have you had, putting up with such a frigid, miserable woman?”*
I couldn’t speak. Not a word. Just stared at my napkin while William, furious, kicked her out.
But she stayed. Two more days. With one line: *”I’m your mother. You’re my daughter.”* That was it. That single phrase erased every boundary, every wrong, every unwelcome intrusion.
And I can’t say no. That’s my tragedy. The moment I hear her voice, I lose my words. I can’t refuse. I always say, *”Of course, come over…”* even when everything inside me screams, *”Don’t! I don’t want this!”* I lie to myself, to my husband, to everyone. And I hate myself for it.
A week ago, she called and calmly announced:
*”I’ve bought tickets. I’ll be staying from the 30th of December to the 10th of January.”*
Never mind that William, Oliver, and I had already planned our New Year’s vacation—a quiet trip to Edinburgh, just the three of us. I’d even picked out meals. But Mum decided, and that was that. And of course, yet again, I couldn’t say, *”Don’t come.”*
This time, though, William and I made a different plan. We’ll leave. Book a hotel. Turn off our phones. Run away. She can kiss the front door for all I care. It’s not revenge—it’s survival. Because another New Year with her would break me.
Sometimes it scares me to admit, even to myself, but I don’t love my mother. I’m afraid of her. And I’ll never understand why she hates me enough to keep ruining my life, even now. All I want is to live—without tears, without fear, without waiting for the next humiliation, the next cruel joke.
I don’t know if running away from my own home is a grown-up solution. But right now, it’s the only thing that can save me. Even just for a little while. From a mother I still can’t defend myself against—not even at 38.
