My name is Olivia, I’m 17 years old, and I’m from London. I’ve kept silent for a long time, internalizing everything, but now I’ve decided to share my story. Maybe someone will see themselves in it. Maybe it will make someone rethink their actions. Or perhaps it will make at least one mother think twice before betraying her own daughter, as mine did.
My parents divorced when I was ten. I wouldn’t say we were a happy family before that—arguments, accusations, and coldness between them were palpable even when I didn’t fully understand. However, after the divorce, things worsened. It was as if Mum and Dad were competing to see who needed me more—not out of love, but out of obligation. I was shuttled between homes, like a piece of luggage no one wanted. Dad’s place was cramped, but at least it was calm. Mum’s was more spacious, but the tension grew heavier by the year.
Everything fell apart when a new man entered Mum’s life. His name was Chris. He was around thirty, nearly ten years younger than Mum, and immediately acted as if he owned the place, while I was a mere inconvenience. At first, he politely smiled and pretended to care about how I was doing. But the facade quickly faded. He didn’t like that I lived with Mum. He didn’t like that Mum spent money on me. He openly said my dad was irresponsible, that I was a burden, and that I should have “learned to be independent by now.”
He manipulated Mum, drained her of money, and convinced her that instead of a teenage daughter, what she needed was freedom and self-care. And Mum… she listened to him. She no longer noticed my tears at night, how I quietly gathered my books in the kitchen to avoid being in their sight, or how I spent an hour locked in the bathroom just to sit in silence.
The final straw was one night when I heard them arguing again. The yelling shook the windows. I rushed out of my room to stand between them, to protect Mum—I was afraid he might hit her. But things unfolded differently. He looked at me with such rage that it made my heart shrink. I shouted, “Enough! Don’t you dare yell at her!” and immediately received a blow. A genuine, adult, powerful strike. He hit me across the face, sending me crashing against the corner of a cabinet. Everything went blurry. I remember Mum screaming and… then silence.
I thought he would leave now. That Mum would kick him out, hold me close, call a doctor, and tell me she loved me. I waited for that moment. I searched her eyes for salvation. But she only whispered, “You ruined everything,” and an hour later said I needed to move in with Dad.
I quietly packed my things. It felt as if my heart had been torn out. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I simply left, realizing I no longer had a home.
Now I live with Dad. He does his best, but we don’t share the closeness I always yearned for with Mum. I no longer hope for her to call, apologize, or visit… Still, inside, I’m a little girl hoping Mum will open the door and say, “Forgive me, darling.” But that won’t happen. She chose him. The man who struck her child.
I don’t wish her ill. But I know one day he’ll leave. He’ll find someone younger, prettier, more agreeable. He’ll leave her alone. And maybe then she’ll think of me. But I won’t be the one who forgives everything anymore. Because a mother’s betrayal is a wound that never heals.
To all the parents out there: don’t have children if you’re not ready to be there for them, if you can’t place them above your romantic dramas. We, the children, aren’t to blame for who you love. We didn’t ask to be born. But if you chose to bring us into this world—don’t betray us.
Mum, if you ever read this… know that I survived. I stood up. I’m strong. But I’ll never come back to you in tears, like before. You’re no longer my mum. You’re just the woman who once gave birth to me.
