I’m thirty, but I still don’t really have my own life—Mum makes every decision for me, and I can’t break free.
Thirty years old. That’s properly grown-up, isn’t it? Some people my age have kids and mortgages, but me? No freedom, no space to breathe, no say in anything. Because Mum’s always there. Mum, who won’t let go. Mum, who controls every move I make. And I let her. I know it’s my fault—I never learned to say no.
My dad vanished long before I was even born. Mum never mentioned him—just silence, like he never existed. I was sick a lot as a kid—bronchitis, measles, whooping cough, chickenpox. Never went to nursery; Mum looked after me at home. We lived with Nan and Grandad, and they took care of us. Mum trained as a piano teacher, but she didn’t start working until I turned fifteen.
I was her whole world. She lived for me, breathed for me, shielded me from everything. Fell over? No more going outside. Caught a cold? Ice cream was off the table. Every little thing was a disaster waiting to happen. Step out of line, and she’d panic. And I got used to it.
I finished music school, went to uni to study teaching, became a piano teacher—just like Mum. Growing up, I barely had any friends. She never let me get close to anyone—always said they weren’t “the right sort.” But we went to the theatre together, concerts, read books. My life was like something out of an old novel, minus the grand balls and suitors.
Uni didn’t change much. Grandad helped me get a job at a music school. I loved teaching, loved the kids, and Mum was happy—just me and a bunch of older women, no “bad influences” around. I had almost no mates. Tried keeping up with a couple of girls, but that fizzled out—couldn’t ever see them properly because Mum didn’t approve.
Five years ago, *he* showed up—the new guitar teacher. Kind, smart, dead handsome. Like something out of a romance novel. We went on a date. For the first time in ages, I was happy. Didn’t last, though.
First evening? Mum rang every ten minutes, made such a scene I ended up in tears—bloke was horrified. Second date? Turned my phone off. Came home to an ambulance outside. Mum had called every hospital, the police, my colleagues. They took her away after a panic attack. There wasn’t a third date. For the first time, I felt properly angry. Stayed at a mate’s place. She told me, “Don’t go back. Otherwise, you’ll never get out.”
I stopped answering Mum’s calls, just texted that I was fine. She turned up at my work, made scenes, wound up back in hospital. Couldn’t take it—went home. Felt guilty ever since, like a splinter under my skin. My mate begged me to stay. Didn’t listen. And since then? Everything’s just… frozen.
Now I’m thirty. Mum and I go to the theatre, take little spa breaks, have lunch together every weekend. No boyfriend, no real friends, no freedom. Every time I try to step away, it’s sheer panic. I’m scared. Scared she won’t survive if I leave. That if I do, the worst will happen—and I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll have killed her.
I want my own life. But I can’t. I don’t know how to be tough. Don’t know how to choose *me*. And I’m terrified I’ll end up just like her—lonely, trapped, broken. More and more, I think there’s no way out at all.
