My mother lives entirely through my life and the lives of my children, imposing her opinions endlessly…
I’ve been married for ten years, and my husband and I have a religious family, raising three children. When I got married, I left a small town near Birmingham, where I lived with my mum and grandmother. After my grandmother passed away, Mum was left alone; she was lonely, visiting us occasionally, but managed to keep going—working and coping. However, a few years ago, everything changed. Her health started to decline—her blood pressure fluctuated, and her joints ached. In fear for her wellbeing, I urged her to move closer to us. She agreed to it. Having lived her entire life with her mum, alone and without a partner, I couldn’t leave her by herself. We rented her a flat near our house in the suburbs, taking care of the rent and even found her a job so she wouldn’t feel adrift.
But instead of gratitude, I received a burden that grows heavier with each passing day. Mum didn’t just relocate; she engulfed my life and those of my children. When she used to visit, it was manageable: she delighted in her grandchildren, helped us out, then left. Now, it’s as if she has dissolved into us, into our home, our every move. Her presence is stifling me, and her overbearing control and intrusive care have become unbearable. She has her own views and rules, which she tirelessly drums into the heads of my children and me, disregarding our beliefs, traditions, and way of life. She seems blind to any boundaries—neither mine nor the children’s.
Everything I do is wrong. I’m parenting the children poorly, not feeding them properly, not saying the right things. She must know our every move: what we ate, where we went, what we talked about. She interrogates our nannies, sniffs out details like a detective, then unloads her “wise” advice on me. With each year, I feel our bond collapsing, turning into frayed nerves and endless arguments. I’ve lived with this for too long, and it’s broken me. I’ve become irritable, harsh at home, and started doubting myself as a mother. Her shadow looms over me constantly; even in her absence, I hear her voice, her reproaches, her sighs.
I’ve tried setting boundaries, limited her visits, 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, looks at him with disdain, as if he’s hindering her from fully possessing me and the children, recreating the life she had with my grandmother when she raised me alone. Sometimes, she deluges me with complaints: “I’m useless to anybody, a burden, you’re abandoning me.” And I’m drowning in it—not knowing how to be kind, how to remain myself, how to not scream from helplessness. Every conversation with her leaves me feeling like a squeezed lemon, empty and utterly drained.
She insists I’m exaggerating, that all this stems from her immense, sacrificial love for me. And I’m losing my mind. 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, because behind it lies 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—a lifeline—my husband has been offered a job abroad, and we’re planning a move. It feels like a ray of light in the darkness: a chance to break free, to finally live my own life. Yet, my heart aches—the thought of leaving my mum here, alone, feels like betrayal. She’s not 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’t live near her anymore. I need space, distance—a different city, another country where she can only visit instead of embedding herself into our lives like roots into soil. I dream of the day when her shadow no longer hovers over me, but fear and a sense of duty hold me in a vice grip. Am I doing the right thing by leaving and leaving her behind? And worse still—hiding how badly I want this? What if her solitude becomes her suffering, and I’m to blame? I feel wretched, torn between my love for her and my longing for freedom. This choice is like a knife to the heart, and I don’t know if I have the strength to make it.
