I’m thirty, and I still don’t have a life of my own—my mum decides everything for me, and I can’t break free.
Thirty years old—an age when some people have kids and mortgages, but I’ve got no freedom, no privacy, no voice of my own. Because my mum’s always there. She won’t let go. She controls every move I make. And I let her. I know it’s my fault. I never learned how to say no.
My dad vanished from our lives long before I was born. Mum never spoke of him—just silence, like he never existed. I was a sickly child—bronchitis, measles, whooping cough, chickenpox. Never went to nursery; Mum looked after me at home. We lived with my grandparents, who provided for us. Mum was a trained 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. A cold meant no ice cream. Every little thing was a danger. One wrong step, and she’d panic. And I got used to it.
I finished music school, went to a teaching college, became a piano teacher—just like Mum. As a kid, I barely had friends. She wouldn’t let me mix with anyone, calling them “a bad influence.” Instead, we went to the theatre, concerts, read books together. I lived like a heroine from an old novel—minus the balls and suitors.
Not much changed in uni. Grandad helped me get a job at a music school. I loved it, the kids were sweet, Mum was happy—no “bad crowd,” just respectable older women around me. I hardly had close friends. Two girls I tried getting close to? Gone. We couldn’t meet up—Mum wouldn’t approve.
Five years ago, *he* appeared—the new guitar teacher. Kind. Clever. Charming. Like something out of a romance novel. We went on a date. I was happy—for about five minutes.
First date—Mum rang every ten minutes, worked herself into hysterics, and the guy freaked out. Second date—I turned my phone off. Came home to an ambulance outside. Mum had called every hospital, the police, my colleagues. She was taken away with a panic attack. There was no third date. For the first time, I felt angry. I left, crashed at a friend’s. She said, *Don’t go back. Or you’ll never get free.*
I ignored Mum’s calls, just texted that I was fine. She showed up at work, made scenes, ended up back in hospital. I caved—went home. Guilt’s been gnawing at me ever since. My friend begged me to stay away. I didn’t listen. And from that moment, everything just… froze.
Now I’m thirty. Mum and I go to the theatre, take spa breaks, have Sunday lunches together. No relationships. No friends. No freedom. Every time I try to step out of this loop, it’s panic. I’m scared. Scared she won’t survive if I leave. That if I make a choice, 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 firm. Don’t know how to choose *me*. I’m terrified I’ll end up like her—lonely, trapped, broken. Most days, it feels like there’s no way out.
