“Don’t Call Me Mum—You’re Making Me Feel Old!” How a Woman Rejected Her Daughter and Future Grandchild for the Sake of Imagined Youth
She had been on edge for a month—hurt, furious, alone. Withdrawn ever since her latest lover left her. Yet she’d been so sure this time would be different, so convinced that “happiness” was finally within reach.
I’m 26, and her name is Lorraine. She’s 44. Biologically, she’s my mother. In reality, we’re strangers. She married my father at nineteen. A year later, I arrived—an “unwanted accident,” as she often reminded me. They divorced shortly after my birth, and from then on, she never referred to him as anything but a “loser” and a “good-for-nothing.”
The irony? That “loser” has been happily married to his second wife for over twenty years. He owns a successful business, a countryside estate near London, two flats, and even a holiday home in Cornwall. He’s the one who gifted me a flat when I got married—where my husband and I now live.
I was raised by my grandmother, my father’s mother. Later, Dad took me into his new family. And you know what? I never felt like an outsider. My stepmum is an absolute gem—she became the mother I never had. But Lorraine? I’ve called her by her first name since childhood. And not without reason.
I was nine when she took me to Brighton for a “mother-daughter getaway.” Excited, I asked, “Mum, can we go to the beach?” What followed was a shriek heard across half the hotel:
“Never call me ‘Mum’! It makes me sound ancient! It’s Lorraine—got it?”
I got it. And after that, I never went anywhere with her again. Her world revolved around men, salons, and parties. I stayed with Gran. Later, with Dad and his family. And thank goodness for that.
Over the years, Lorraine cycled through five husbands. Between them? Endless flings, wild nights, fake smiles, and caked-on makeup. She worked at a posh salon in Chelsea, injecting everything imaginable—Botox, fillers, threads, lip plumpers. Her face stopped showing emotion, yet she clung to her mantra: “I’m still young! I’ve still got it!”
Her latest “prince” was two years younger than me—a lanky, tattooed barista named Charlie.
“Sweetheart, meet Charlie. We’re getting married. This is the real deal,” she gushed, beaming like a schoolgirl at prom.
I froze. Then, quietly, I said:
“Lorraine… I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a grandmother.”
Charlie cheered, popping champagne, while my mother turned grey. Without a word, she grabbed her bag, slammed the door, and vanished.
A week later, she reappeared—tear-stained, face twisted:
“This is your fault! He left me because of you! You ruined everything with your ‘grandma’ nonsense! I refuse to grow old! I’m only 37! I still have a life to live, and you’re dragging me to the grave with your kids!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. The woman who birthed me called my pregnancy a betrayal. Then came the final blow—the words that scorched away the last shred of connection:
“I never had a daughter. And I’ll never have grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Forget I exist.”
And she was gone.
So, we went to my real family—Gran and Grandad. They hugged me, crying happy tears, already planning baby names, pram walks, and knitting booties. They’re my foundation, my safe place, my true home.
As for Lorraine? Let her chase eternal youth. But one day, she’ll wake in silence—to an empty flat, a stranger’s face in the mirror, the ghost of what she threw away. And maybe then, she’ll realise who she truly lost. True worth isn’t measured in years erased, but in the love you choose to keep.
