“Don’t Call Me Mum—You’re Making Me Old!” How a Woman Rejected Her Daughter and Future Grandchild for the Sake of Pretend Youth
She’s been on edge for a month now. Hurt, furious, and utterly alone. Retreating into herself after yet another fling dumped her. And to think, she’d actually believed this time it was “real love.”
I’m 26, and her name is Lorraine. She’s 44. Biologically, she’s my mother, but in every other way, we’re strangers. She married my dad at nineteen. A year later, I arrived—”an accident,” as she never tired of reminding me. They split almost immediately, and from then on, she only ever referred to him as a “deadbeat” and a “loser.”
The irony? That “loser” has been happily married to his second wife for over twenty years. Runs his own business, owns a sprawling countryside house just outside London, two flats, and even a holiday home in the Lake District. He’s the one who gave me my wedding flat, where my husband and I now live.
I was raised by my grandmother—Dad’s mum. Later, Dad took me into his new family, and you know what? I never felt like an outsider. My stepmum? A saint. She’s been more of a real mother to me than Lorraine ever was. Which is why I’ve called Lorraine by her first name since I was little. And for good reason.
I was nine when she took me to Brighton for what she called a “proper mother-daughter holiday.” I made the mistake of asking, “Mum, can we go to the beach?” And she shrieked loud enough for half the hotel to hear:
“Don’t you *ever* call me Mum! It makes me sound ancient! It’s Lorraine, got it?”
Got it. And I never went on another trip with her. Her world revolved around men, spas, and parties, while I stayed with Gran. Then, later, with Dad and his new family. Thank goodness.
Over the years, Lorraine cycled through five husbands. In between? Countless flings, wild nights, fake smiles, and lashes so thick they could’ve been scaffolding. She worked at some posh salon in Chelsea, injecting anything she could into her face—Botox, fillers, threads, you name it. Her expression barely moved anymore, but she still insisted, “I’ve got *years* left in me!”
Her last “prince charming” was two years younger than me. A bloke named Kyle. Lanky, covered in tattoos, and bartending at some dodgy vape lounge.
“Sweetheart, meet Kyle. We’re getting married. It’s the real deal,” she cooed, beaming like a teenager before prom.
I froze. Then softly said, “Lorraine… I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a grandmother.”
Kyle whooped, started pouring champagne, shouting “cheers,” while Lorraine turned ashen. Without a word, she grabbed her handbag, slammed the door, and vanished.
A week later, she reappeared in floods of tears, face contorted:
“This is *your* fault! He left me! You ruined everything with your ‘grandma’ nonsense! I’m not old! I’m only 37! I still have a life to live, and you’re dragging me to the grave with your brood!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. The woman who gave birth to me called my pregnancy a “betrayal.” Then came the final blow, scorching away whatever lingering affection remained:
“I never had a daughter. And I won’t have grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Forget I exist.”
And she was gone.
So I went to my *real* family—Gran and Grandad. They hugged me, cried happy tears, chatted about baby names, who’d push the pram, who’d knit the booties. *They* are my rock. My home. My truth.
As for Lorraine? Let her chase eternal youth. One day, she’ll wake up to silence—an empty flat, a face that’s not quite hers anymore, staring into a mirror that stopped reflecting anything real long ago. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll realise exactly what she threw away.
