I had no choice but to ask my own mother to leave the house. I couldn’t endure her behavior any longer.
When I was a child, my mum was my whole world. Growing up, I believed we had the warmest, most steadfast bond imaginable. She took care of me, tucked me in at night, read bedtime stories, and braided my hair before school in our cozy town near Bath. I believed this tenderness, this connection, this peace would last forever.
But as I grew older, I began to notice how her care turned into stifling control. She watched my every move: what I ate, who I befriended, what skirt I wore. Any slight resistance would ignite a row full of tears and shouting.
“I’ve given my life to you! And you…” she would hurl at me any time I dared to have my own opinion.
Years passed, and things only got worse. I grew up, married Tom, and had a son, Mike. Yet Mum refused to see me as an adult. She would burst into our lives unannounced, take over the kitchen, and bark orders at my husband as if he was her subordinate.
“He doesn’t know how to hold a child!” she fumed. “And you never learned to cook properly, what do you feed your husband, you disgrace?”
I tried to gently explain that I had my own family now, with my own rules, but she ignored my words.
“This is my house!” she stubbornly insisted.
And in a way, it was true. We lived in a flat inherited from my grandmother, which gave her the illusion of having complete authority over me, over all of us.
But there is a limit to everything, and mine came on one fateful day.
I came home from work exhausted but happy—I had been promoted. I wanted to share it with Tom, open a bottle of wine, celebrate. Instead, I walked into a scene of chaos. Mum was sitting in the living room, and across from her was Mike, sobbing into his hands.
“What’s happened?” I rushed to my son, my heart breaking at his tears.
“Granny said you’re a bad mum… That I’d be better off living with her,” he sobbed, his whole body trembling.
Something snapped inside me. Anger, pain, and resentment formed into a fiery ball.
“You’ve crossed the line, Mum!” My voice trembled, on the verge of a shout.
She merely shrugged as if nothing was amiss: “I spoke the truth. You’re always at work, the child grows up without any attention. What kind of mother are you?”
“What kind of mother?!” I retorted, breathless with rage. “Were you a good one when you lashed me with a belt for every little thing? When you forced me to live by your rules, unable to breathe?”
For the first time, I saw confusion in her eyes. She opened her mouth to argue but her confidence was gone.
“You’re ungrateful!” she spat, but her voice was already weak, broken.
I took a deep breath and said the words that had been burning inside me: “You’re no longer needed in this house. Leave.”
Mum stood up, slammed the door so hard the windows rattled, and left. She hasn’t come back since.
The first few days were hell. Guilt suffocated me, the emptiness in my chest seemed endless. I constantly asked myself: how could I drive my own mother away? But then came relief—as if a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. The house was peaceful, not burdened with her constant disapproval. Tom and I finally felt like we were masters of our own lives, our own family.
And Mum… She settled somewhere in town, rented a room. Occasionally, she tries to reach out—she calls, sends short messages. But I’m no longer the little girl who can be caught by guilt or manipulation. Now, I decide who to let into my world and who to keep at a distance. And this choice is my first step towards freedom.
