Even now, I still can’t pinpoint the moment when everything unraveled. How could it be that the woman who had been my anchor, my confidante, my guiding light all my life—could so easily cast it all aside and betray me? All for the sake of a man. A man who wasn’t worth a shadow of the woman she once was.
Mum had me late, at thirty. She always said I was her purpose, her rock, “a child for herself.” I never knew my father—just a blank space on my birth certificate, not a word ever spoken of him. We lived modestly but warmly. We didn’t have fine things, but we had love. She worked as an accountant, and in the evenings, we’d bake biscuits, watch telly, and talk about everything under the sun. I was certain our bond was unbreakable. She never dated, never brought anyone home—her life revolved around me. Until I turned fifteen, it was pure bliss.
Then *he* appeared. Edward. A colleague from another department. She came home one evening with a spark in her eyes—I knew at once someone new had entered her life. Within weeks, there were dinner dates, hushed phone calls, new frocks. I was happy for her—truly. But deep down, a quiet unease settled. And for good reason.
One day, she simply announced: “We’re moving in with Edward. He’s got a two-bed flat—you’ll have your own room.” I tried to argue—not out of jealousy, but because something felt *wrong*. He barely spoke to me, looked straight through me as if I were furniture. But Mum wouldn’t hear it. “You don’t understand, I’m happy,” was all she’d say. So I relented.
At first, things were quiet. We coexisted like strangers. He kept to himself, I stayed in my room, Mum caught between us like a bridge. Then they married. A week before my A-levels. And everything crumbled. He changed—not that he’d ever been kind, but now he was a tyrant. He belittled us, barked orders, hurled absurd accusations.
“Two women in the house, and not a decent meal?” he’d growl. “She’s at school—where’ve *you* been? Prancing about in heels, chasing men?”
He shouted, barred her from leaving, staged jealous scenes, rifled through her messages, hurled her phone. Mum would weep, then he’d return with flowers. And so the cycle repeated. I begged her a hundred times: “Let’s leave, I’ll stand by you, you’re not alone.” But she’d just wipe her tears. “You don’t understand—you’re still a child. I love him.”
*Love.* So much that in the end, he forbade her to pay for my university. Mum had been renting out our old flat, saving every penny—I dreamed of reading law. Studied day and night. When I missed the cut for state funding, I’d hoped she’d help.
But Edward declared, “A woman belongs in the kitchen. You expect me to pay for her degree? Marry rich—then study all you like.”
I snapped. Told him exactly what I thought. Packed my things and left. Mum… Mum didn’t even try to stop me. Called me ungrateful, said I owed Edward an apology.
I didn’t apologise. We haven’t spoken since. Not a word, not a minute. She chose him—vanishing into his cruelty, speaking his words, moving like him, even laughing with his coarse, ugly humour. When she calls—*if* she calls—her voice is ice. Detached. As if I’m not her daughter, but an old acquaintance.
I’ve stopped fighting. The mother who loved me, who baked scones and tucked me under blankets—she’s gone. She died that 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. Only when she’s alone—may she remember who she betrayed for a stranger.
