I’m thirty, and I still don’t have a life of my own—Mum decides everything for me, and I can’t break free.
Thirty years old. That’s a proper grown-up age, when some people have kids and mortgages, and here I am—no freedom, no space, no voice. All because of Mum. The mother who won’t let go. The mother who controls every single thing I do. And I let her. I know it’s my fault. I never learned how to say no.
My dad vanished long before I was born. Mum never mentioned him—just silence, like he never existed. I was sick a lot as a kid—bronchitis, measles, whooping cough, chickenpox. Never went to nursery—Mum looked after me at home. We lived with my grandparents, and they took care of us. Mum was trained as a piano teacher, but she only started working when I turned fifteen.
I was her whole world. She lived for me, breathed for me, shielded me from everything. If I fell, I wasn’t allowed outside. If I had a cold, no ice cream. Every little thing was a threat. One step out of line, and she’d panic. And I got used to it.
I finished music school, went to university, became a piano teacher—just like Mum. As a kid, I hardly had any friends. Mum never let me spend time with anyone—she thought they were all “the wrong sort.” But we went to the theatre together, to concerts, read books. I lived like some heroine from a Victorian novel—minus the balls and suitors.
University didn’t change much. My grandad helped me get a job at a music school. I loved the work, the kids were sweet, Mum was happy—only respectable women around me, no “bad influences.” I barely had friends. There were two girls I tried to keep in touch with, but they faded away—we couldn’t meet up. Mum never approved.
Then, five years ago, *he* showed up—the new guitar teacher. Kind, clever, handsome. Like something out of a romance novel. We went on a date. I was happy—for about five minutes.
First night—Mum called every ten minutes, drove me to tears, scared the poor bloke off. Second date—I turned my phone off. Came home to an ambulance outside. Mum had rung every hospital, the police, my colleagues. She had a breakdown, ended up in A&E. Third date never happened. And for the first time, I felt *angry*. I stayed at a mate’s place. She said, “Don’t go back. Or you’ll *never* get free.”
I ignored Mum’s calls—just texted that I was fine. She turned up at my work, made scenes, ended up in hospital again. I couldn’t take it—I went back. And I’ve carried the guilt ever since, like a splinter under my skin. My mate begged me to stay. I didn’t listen. And after that, everything just… stopped.
Now I’m thirty. Mum and I go to the theatre, take trips to spa hotels, have Sunday lunches together. No relationships, no mates, no freedom. Every time I try to step out of this loop, panic sets in. I’m *terrified*. Terrified she won’t survive me leaving. That if I do it, the worst will happen. And I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll be the reason she’s gone.
I want to live my own life. But I can’t. I don’t know how to be tough. Don’t know how to choose *me*. And I’m scared I’ll end up like her—lonely, trapped, broken. These days, I’m starting to think there *is* no way out.
