I had to ask my own mother to leave. I could no longer tolerate her behavior.
When I was little, my mother was my entire universe. As a child, I believed we had the warmest, strongest bond in the world. She took care of me, tucked me in at night, read me bedtime stories, and braided my hair before school in our cozy little town outside York. I thought it would always be this way—the tenderness, the connection, the peace.
But as I grew older, I began to notice how her care turned into stifling control. She monitored my every move: what I ate, who I befriended, what skirt I wore. Any slight objection from me would spark a scandal filled with tears and shouting.
“I sacrificed my whole life for you! And this is what I get…” she would hurl at me when I dared to have my own opinion.
Years passed, and things only got worse. I grew up, married James, and we had our son, Alex. However, my mother refused to see me as an adult. She burst into our lives unannounced, took over the kitchen, and bossed my husband around as if he were her employee.
“He doesn’t know how to hold a child!” she would grumble. “And you never learned how to cook. How do you feed your husband, you disgrace?”
I tried gently explaining that I now had my own family and my own rules, but she ignored my words.
“This is my house!” she stubbornly insisted.
And indeed, it was. We lived in the flat inherited from my grandmother, which gave her the illusion of complete authority over me, over all of us.
But everyone has a breaking point, and mine came on a fateful day.
I came home from work tired but happy—I’d been promoted. I wanted to share the news with James, open a bottle of wine, and celebrate. But what greeted me at home was a nightmare. My mother was in the living room, and opposite her was Alex, crying with his face buried in his hands.
“What happened?” I rushed to my son, my heart aching 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, hurt—all melded into one burning ball.
“You’ve crossed the line, Mum!” my voice shook, ready to break into a scream.
She merely shrugged, as if nothing serious had happened. “I just told the truth. You’re always working, and the kid’s left without supervision. What kind of mother are you?”
“What kind of mother?!” I retorted, gasping with rage. “Were you any better when you hit me with a belt for every little thing? When you forced me to live by your rules, not even letting me breathe?”
For the first time, I saw confusion in her eyes. She opened her mouth to argue but her confidence faltered.
“You’re ungrateful!” she exclaimed, but her voice was now weak, broken.
I took a deep breath and spoke the words that burned my soul:
“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 returned since.
The first few days were hell. Guilt suffocated me, the emptiness in my chest seemed endless. I kept asking myself: how could I turn my own mother away? But then relief followed—it was as though a heavy weight had lifted from my shoulders. Silence prevailed in the house, free from her constant dissatisfaction. James and I finally felt like the masters of our own lives, our own family.
As for Mum… she’s found a place in town, renting a room. Sometimes she tries to reach out—calls, sends brief messages. But I’m no longer that little girl she could manipulate with guilt or obligation. Now, I decide who to allow into my world and who to keep at bay. And this choice—it’s my first step towards freedom.
