My mother lives entirely through my life and my children’s lives, constantly imposing her opinions…
I have been married for ten years, and my husband and I uphold our faith as we raise our three children. When I got married, I left a small village near Manchester, where I lived with my mother and grandmother. After my grandmother passed away, my mother was left alone. She was lonely and would come to visit us, though she managed by working and handling things independently. But everything changed a few years ago. Her health started declining—her blood pressure was unstable, and her joints ached. Concerned for her wellbeing, I insisted she move closer to us. She agreed. Having spent her entire life with her mother, without a partner, I couldn’t bear leaving her alone. We rented her a flat nearby in the suburbs, covered her expenses, and even found her a job, so she wouldn’t feel adrift.
Instead of gratitude, I received a burden that grows heavier with each passing day. She didn’t just move here; she engulfed my life and my children’s lives. Previously, when she visited, it was manageable: she enjoyed her grandchildren, helped out, and then left. Now she has almost dissolved into us, into our home, into every aspect of our daily life. Her presence suffocates me; her overbearing control and incessant care have become unbearable. She has her own views, her own rules, which she relentlessly imposes on me and the children, ignoring our beliefs, our traditions, our way of life. She seems blind to boundaries—both mine and the kids’.
Everything I do is wrong. I’m raising the children poorly, feeding them incorrectly, not saying the right things. She must know our every move: what we ate, where we went, what we talked about. She interrogates our babysitters, sniffs out details like a detective, and then overwhelms me with her “wise” advice. Each year, I feel our bond breaking, transforming into strained nerves and endless arguments. I’ve lived with this for far too long, and it has broken me. I’ve become irritable and harsh at home, starting to doubt myself as a mother. Her shadow looms over me constantly, even when she’s not around—I hear her voice, her reproaches, her sighs.
I’ve attempted to put up barriers, limit her visits, citing the children’s activities and our busy schedule. But it doesn’t help—she always finds ways to intrude. She doesn’t accept my husband, regards him with disdain, as if he’s hindering her from completely possessing me and the children, from reclaiming the life she had with my grandmother when she raised me alone. Sometimes, she unleashes a torrent of grievances: “I mean nothing to anyone, I’m a burden, you’re abandoning me.” And I drown in this—I don’t know how to be kind, how to remain myself, how not to scream out of helplessness. Every conversation with her leaves me feeling drained, emptied to the core.
She insists that I exaggerate, that it’s all her love for me, so strong and selfless. But it’s driving me mad. I want to be a good daughter, but I can’t—her “love” suffocates me like a noose. I don’t want to see her, and this feeling tears my heart apart, followed by guilt, heavy as a stone. 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 to relocate. It’s like a ray of light in the darkness: I see a chance to break free, to finally live my own life. But there’s a pang in my chest—leaving my mother here alone feels like a betrayal. She isn’t getting any younger, and what if her health deteriorates? What if she suffers, and I’m too far away to help? This thought torments me day and night.
But I can no longer live near her. I need space, distance—a different city, a different country, where she can only visit and not dig her roots into our life. I dream of the day when her shadow will no longer hang over me, but fear and a sense of duty hold me in a vice. Am I doing the right thing by leaving and leaving her here? And what’s worse—hiding how much I want this? What if her loneliness becomes her agony, and I’m the one to blame? I feel terrible, torn between my love for her and longing for freedom. This choice is like a knife in my heart, and I don’t know if I have the strength to make it.
