Mum lives solely through my life and that of my children, endlessly imposing her opinions…
I’ve been married for ten years, and my husband and I are a devout family raising three children. When I got married, I left a small town near Manchester where I lived with my mum and grandma. After grandma passed away, Mum was left alone; she was grieving, visited us, but managed somehow by working and taking care of herself. However, everything changed a few years ago. Her health started to falter with fluctuating blood pressure and aching joints, and out of concern, I insisted she move closer to us. She agreed. She had lived with her own mother all her life, alone, without a partner, and I couldn’t leave her isolated. We rented her a flat not far from our home in the suburbs, which we pay for, and even found her a job so she wouldn’t feel lost.
But instead of gratitude, I found myself burdened with a weight that grows heavier each day. Mum didn’t just move; she engulfed my life and that of my children. Earlier, when she visited, it was manageable: she enjoyed the grandchildren, helped out, and then left. Now, she’s interwoven into us, our home, every step we take. Her presence is suffocating, her overbearing control and persistent care unbearable. She has her own views and rules that she relentlessly instils in me and the children, ignoring our beliefs, our traditions, our life. It’s as if she sees no boundaries—neither mine nor the children’s.
Everything I do is wrong. I parent poorly, I don’t feed the children right, I don’t say the right things. She needs to know every move we make: what we ate, where we went, what we talked about. She interrogates our nannies, snooping like a detective, then bombards me with her “wise” advice. Each year, I feel our connection deteriorate, turning into strained nerves and endless arguments. I’ve survived this for far too long, and it has broken me. I’ve become irritable, harsh at home, doubting myself as a mother. Her shadow hovers over me constantly, even when she’s not there—I hear her voice, her reproaches, her sighs.
I’ve tried to set boundaries, limiting her visits by citing the children’s activities and our busy schedule. But it doesn’t help—she still finds ways to intrude. She doesn’t accept my husband, looking at him with disdain as though he keeps her from completely taking over me and the kids, restoring the life she had raising me alone with grandma. Sometimes she unleashes a torrent of complaints: “I’m of no use to anyone, I’m a burden, you’re abandoning me.” And I drown in it—not knowing how to be kind, how to remain myself, how not to scream in frustration. Every conversation with her leaves me feeling drained, exhausted.
She insists that I’m exaggerating, that it’s all her love for me, so strong, so sacrificial. But I’m losing my mind. I want to be a good daughter, but I can’t—her “love” is suffocating me like a noose. I don’t want to see her, and that feeling tears at my heart, bringing with it guilt as heavy as a rock. After each call, I sit in silence, trying to piece myself back together, but I can’t.
Now, we have a glimmer of hope—my husband has been offered a job abroad, and we’re planning a move. It’s like a ray of light in the darkness: I see a chance to escape, breathe freely, finally live my own life. Yet, my heart aches—leaving Mum here alone feels like betrayal. She’s not getting any younger, and what if her health deteriorates? What if she suffers while I’m far away, unable to help? This thought haunts me day and night.
But I can’t live near her any longer. I need space and distance—a different city, another country where she can only visit and not dig roots into our lives like before. I dream of the day when her shadow no longer looms over me, but fear and a sense of duty hold me in a vise. Am I doing the right thing by leaving her here? Worse yet, by hiding how much I want it? What if her solitude becomes her pain, and I’m to blame? I feel awful, torn between loving her and craving freedom. This decision feels like a knife in the heart, and I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to make it.
