At thirty, I still don’t truly live my own life—my mother decides everything for me, and I can’t break free.
Thirty years old—an age when others have children and mortgages, and I have neither freedom, nor personal space, nor a voice of my own. Because my mother is always there. A mother who won’t let go. A mother who monitors my every move. And I let her. I know it’s my fault. I never learned to say no.
My father vanished long before I was born. Mother never spoke of him—just silence, as though he never existed. From early childhood, I was ill—bronchitis, measles, whooping cough, chickenpox. I never went to nursery; Mother cared for me at home. We lived with my grandparents, who provided for us. She was a piano teacher by training but only began working when I turned fifteen.
I was her entire world. She lived through me, breathed for me, shielded me from everything. If I fell, I wasn’t allowed outside. A cold meant no ice cream. The smallest thing became a threat. One misstep, and she panicked. And I grew used to it.
I finished music school, enrolled at a teacher-training college, became a piano instructor—just like her. As a child, I had almost no friends. Mother never allowed it—she deemed everyone “unsuitable.” Instead, we went to the theatre and concerts, read books. I lived like a heroine from an old novel, minus the balls and suitors.
University changed little. Grandfather helped me secure a position at a music school. I enjoyed the work, the children brought joy, Mother was pleased—surrounded by older women, no “bad influences” in sight. Friends remained scarce. Two girls I tried to befriend faded away—we couldn’t meet; Mother disapproved.
Five years ago, he appeared—the new guitar teacher. Kind. Clever. Handsome. The hero of my story. We went on a date. For a moment, I was happy.
The first evening—Mother called every ten minutes, drove me to tears, frightened him off. The second—I turned off my phone. When I returned, an ambulance stood outside our house. She had phoned hospitals, the police, my colleagues. They took her away after an attack. There was no third date. For the first time, I felt anger. I fled to a friend’s. She said, “Don’t go back. Or you’ll never be free.”
I ignored her calls—texted that I was fine. She came to my workplace, made scenes, landed in hospital again. I couldn’t bear it—I went back. With guilt that has festered in me ever since. My friend begged me to stay. I didn’t listen. And from that moment, everything froze.
Now I’m thirty. Mother and I go to plays, visit spas, have Sunday lunches together. No relationships, no friends, no freedom. Every attempt to break free brings panic. I’m afraid. Afraid she won’t survive my leaving. That if I dare—the worst will happen. And I’d never forgive myself. I’d be the cause of her death.
I want to live my own life. But I can’t. I don’t know how to be firm. How to choose myself. I fear I’ll repeat her fate—lonely, trapped, broken. More and more, I think there simply is no way out.
