**Diary Entry**
Mum never hesitates to send me angry messages filled with bile. I’ve blocked countless numbers, yet she always finds another to use. The words differ each time, but they’re always laced with curses. She wishes terrible things upon me—illness, even death.
How can a mother say such things to her own daughter? She sees no wrong in it. For the past decade, only my brother Alfie has mattered to her. I exist solely to clean and care for him.
My brother and I have different fathers. Mum remarried when I was twelve. I don’t remember my own dad, but she never had a kind word to say about him. As a child, I believed he must have been awful—why else would she vilify him so relentlessly? Now, history repeats itself.
My stepfather was ordinary. We didn’t argue, just treated each other with polite distance. I never saw him as a father, but if I asked for help—with homework, for example—he never refused.
When I was thirteen, Mum gave birth to Alfie. Soon, it was clear something was wrong. Doctors first diagnosed a learning disability, then something far worse—incurable. My stepfather took it hard. He had a heart attack, spent a week in intensive care, and never left. My life became unbearable.
I understand Mum’s pain. Raising a child who screamed, lashed out, or acted unpredictably would break anyone. Yet when social services suggested specialised care, she refused, calling it her “cross to bear.”
She couldn’t manage alone, so half the burden fell on me. After school, while she worked odd jobs, I looked after Alfie. It was exhausting, often disgusting—children like him can’t always control their bodies. I had no normal teenage life—just school, then Alfie’s cries drowning out my homework.
Three times, social workers offered to place him in a facility. Each time, Mum refused, insisting she could cope. But *I* couldn’t. The day after A-levels, I packed my things and left. She’d told me university wasn’t an option—Alfie needed me.
I stayed with a friend, found work, then rented a room. Uni was out of reach—I couldn’t afford it, full-time or otherwise.
For nearly a decade, I’ve lived away, no contact with Mum. When life improved, I tried reaching out, offering financial help. What I got in return was a torrent of hate. She screamed that I’d betrayed her, abandoned her, that I didn’t care how she struggled. She demanded I return. The memories made me sick.
I told her I’d send money, nothing more. The insults came, and I walked away. Now, she still finds ways to send vile messages, each one reopening old wounds. I’ve given up hope we’ll ever reconcile.
After all she’s written, I want nothing to do with her. Choices were made—hers and mine. But every message still leaves me aching.
