I still can’t pinpoint the moment it all went wrong. How did the woman who had been my rock, my confidante, my guiding light—suddenly cast it all aside and betray me? All for a man. A man who wasn’t even worth a shadow of the woman she used to be.
Mum had me late, at thirty. She always said I was her purpose, her anchor, her “child for herself.” I never knew my father—just a blank space on my birth certificate, and not once in my life did she even whisper his name. We lived modestly, but warmly. No luxuries, just love. She worked as an accountant, and in the evenings, we’d bake biscuits, binge dramas, talk about everything under the sun. I was certain—our bond was unbreakable. She never dated, never brought anyone home. Her world revolved around me. Until I turned fifteen, it was pure bliss.
Then he appeared. David. A colleague from another department. She came home one night with a glow in her eyes—I knew instantly someone had stepped into her life. Within weeks, there were dates, hushed phone calls, new dresses. I was happy for her—truly. But beneath it all, unease gnawed at me. And for good reason.
One day, she announced it bluntly: “We’re moving in with David. He’s got a two-bed, you’ll have your own room.” I tried to argue—not out of jealousy, but because something felt off. He ignored me, looked straight through me like I was part of the furniture. Mum wouldn’t listen. “You don’t understand, I’m happy,” was all she’d say. So I gave in.
At first, it was quiet. We coexisted—he in his space, me in mine, Mum caught in the middle. Then they married. A week before my A-level exams. And everything crumbled. He changed—not that he’d ever been kind, but now he was a full-blown tyrant. He belittled us, barked orders, hurled absurd accusations.
“Two women under one roof, and not a decent meal between you? She’s at school, and where are you?” he’d snarl. “Dressed up in heels, chasing men, are you?”
He screamed, forbade her from leaving the house, staged jealous scenes, rifled through her messages, threw her phone. Mum would sob, then he’d return with flowers. And so the cycle repeated. A hundred times I begged her, “Let’s leave, I’m with you, you’re not alone.” But she’d just wipe her tears. “You don’t understand. You’re just a child. I love him.”
Love him? So much that, in the end, he forbade her from paying my university fees. Mum had rented out our old flat, saved every penny—I’d dreamed of studying law. I’d crammed day and night. When I missed the cutoff for a scholarship, I’d hoped she’d help.
But David spat, “A woman’s place is in the kitchen. Me, paying for her degree? Marry rich—then study all you like.”
I snapped. Told him exactly what I thought. Packed my things and walked out. Mum… Mum didn’t even try to stop me. Called me ungrateful. Said I owed David an apology.
I didn’t apologise. We haven’t spoken since. Not a day, not a minute. She vanished into him, became an echo of his cruelty. She speaks his words, moves like him, even jokes with his crude, ugly humour. When she calls—if she calls—her voice is ice. Detached. Like I’m not her daughter, just some stranger from her past.
I don’t fight anymore. I’ve accepted it—the mother I knew is gone. The one who loved me, baked fairy cakes, tucked me in—she died the day she chose a man over her child. Losing her left a scar. But my choice is simple—I won’t let that pain burn away what’s left of me.
Let her live her life. But when she’s alone, let her remember. Let her remember who she betrayed for a stranger.
