I cut ties with my mother because she sided with my ex-husband and blamed me for our divorce.
She made her priorities 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 stayed in touch with him, never missing a chance to remind my current husband how “perfect” her first son-in-law had been.
Naturally, these conversations poisoned my relationships—both with my husband and with my mother. Eventually, I made a choice: if Mum cherished my ex so much, she could keep him. I was walking away from the drama.
Daniel and I married right after university. Our romance was intense, everything happened fast, and within months we had a lavish wedding. Mum adored her son-in-law, practically carrying him around on a pedestal. At first, it seemed sweet. Then it became suffocating.
The first six months were bliss—full of love, care, tenderness. But then something shattered. My husband grew aggressive, irritable, cruel. Fights erupted constantly. I fled to my mother’s house more than once, desperate for support, only to be met with scorn. She always took his side.
Whenever she visited, her first words were criticism—the house wasn’t clean enough, dinner wasn’t perfect, the laundry wasn’t done right. No matter how exhausted I was from work or how ill I felt, she dismissed it. “A woman keeps the home! If you can’t manage, let your husband complain! He’s a catch, and you—well, you’re hardly a prize, with that attitude!” She recited it like scripture.
I reminded her she’d been divorced twice herself, but that only unleashed a storm of insults. Daniel and I lasted just over two years. The end came when he hit me for the first time. I packed my things in silence and left. By morning, I’d filed for divorce.
Mum was furious. She accused me of pushing him to it. Later, Daniel came begging—apologies, threats of suicide. She piled on the pressure, but I stood firm. Months later, I moved out of Mum’s house. I couldn’t bear another lecture about how I’d failed to keep “such a good man.” It took me a year to recover.
Then James came into my life. Gentle, kind, patient. We dated for over a year before marrying. I kept the relationship from my mother, knowing exactly how she’d react. Sure enough, the first time they met, she began comparing James to Daniel—and the comparison wasn’t flattering.
She didn’t hold back, not even at her own birthday party. She invited my ex and spent the evening sneering, praising him while belittling James. We left early. Afterward, Mum doubled down—calling to sneer that I’d married beneath myself, that James wasn’t good enough. Every plea for her to stop only sharpened her tongue.
One day, I woke up and saw the truth: my mother was destroying me—my confidence, my marriage, my sanity. I feared for the future. For the husband I loved. For children who might one day endure her cruelty too. I refused to let anyone tell my kids they weren’t good enough—not like she’d told me.
So I made my choice: no more contact. I wanted to live my life, free of her poison. If she loved my ex so much, she could have him. I’d stay with the man who truly loved me.
And for the first time in years… I felt free.
