I cut ties with my mother because she sided with my ex-husband and blamed me for our divorce.
She made her loyalties clear long before I finally left my first husband. She treated him like a saint while painting me as the cause of every argument and misunderstanding. After the divorce, she kept in touch with him and never missed a chance to tell my current husband how “perfect” her first son-in-law had been.
Naturally, these conversations only poisoned my relationships—both with my husband and with my mother. Eventually, I made a decision: if Mum cherished my ex so much, she could keep him. As for me, I was stepping out of the drama.
With Simon, we married right after university. It was a whirlwind romance—everything happened fast, and within months, we had a lavish wedding. Mum adored him, practically carrying him around on a pedestal. At first, it seemed sweet, then it grew irritating.
The first six months were lovely—full of care, love, and tenderness. But then something broke. My husband grew aggressive, short-tempered, and cruel. Fights became routine. I went to Mum’s a few times, hoping for support, but only got blame. She always took his side.
When she visited, her first words were complaints: the house wasn’t clean enough, dinner wasn’t perfect, the ironing was sloppy. No matter how exhausted I was from work or how unwell I felt, she didn’t care. *”A woman’s duty is to keep the home! If you can’t manage, let your husband speak up! He’s a catch, and you—well, you’re difficult and plain!”* she’d hiss, like a broken record.
I reminded her she’d been married twice and divorced both times, but she only hurled insults back. Simon and I lasted just over two years. The end came when he hit me. I packed my things in silence and left. The next morning, I filed for divorce.
Mum was furious. She claimed if a man raised his hand, I must’ve pushed him to it. Simon begged for forgiveness, even threatened suicide. Mum piled on the pressure. But I stood firm. Months later, I moved out—I couldn’t bear hearing how worthless I was for losing *”such a husband.”* It took me a year to recover.
Then Max came into my life—gentle, caring, understanding. We dated for a while and married after eighteen months. I hid the relationship from Mum, knowing how she’d react. And just as I feared, at our first meeting, she compared Max to Simon—and not favourably.
She didn’t hold back, even at her birthday party. She invited my ex and spent the evening sneering, praising him, and belittling Max. We left early. After that, her calls doubled—ranting about how I’d married a nobody who wasn’t good enough. Every plea to stop just brought more venom.
Then one morning, it hit me—my mother was destroying me, my marriage, my peace. I feared for our future. For my husband, whom I loved. For any children we might have, who’d endure her cruelty too. I refused to let anyone tell my kids they weren’t *”good enough”*—like she’d told me.
So I made my choice: I wouldn’t speak to her again. I wanted my own life. I wouldn’t let her poison ruin another marriage. If she loved my ex so much, she could have him. I’d stay with the man who truly loved and valued me.
And for the first time in years… I felt free.
*Sometimes, walking away isn’t weakness—it’s the bravest step toward peace.*
