She Meant Well: How My Mother Ruined Her Bond with Her Granddaughter by Forcing Clothes on Her
For years now, my mother has insisted on dressing my daughter—unfortunately, with no awareness that she’s only driving a wedge between them. My daughter is a teenager, with her own taste, preferences, and style long established. Yet Grandma stubbornly keeps buying her clothes without asking, without consulting, without any thought. She just shows up and hands over bags of garments. And every time—the same tears, accusations, hurt feelings. Because my daughter won’t wear them. And Mum—she takes offence.
*I tried so hard, I picked these, and she won’t even try them on!* she complains, as if a child owes gratitude just for the fact of a gift.
I remember it all too well from my own childhood. Mum always bought clothes based on one rule: *Make it last ten years, make it stain-proof, make it sturdy.* No one cared about beauty, fashion, or comfort. I was dressed for *their* convenience. And I had to accept it—because there was no money. Only when I started earning my own wages did I finally get to choose clothes I liked, not just ones built to survive an apocalypse.
Once I was on my feet, I tried to treat Mum—something nice, something new. But she waved it off instantly.
*What’ve you bought me? I look like a stuffed mannequin. I’m not twenty anymore. And anyway—this fabric won’t hold up. One wash, and it’ll be rags.*
She refused to wear anything I picked and kept buying clothes that would *last ten years.* Fine. I let it go. Let her wear what she wants.
But when my daughter was born—Mum flipped some old switch. She dragged out sacks of my childhood clothes from the attic. Tiny sweaters, pinafores, patchwork dresses. Some were still decent, so I kept them. The rest went in the bin. When she found out, Mum erupted:
*I saved those for years! How could you?!*
After that, she started buying *new.* New to *her,* at least. To the eye, it might as well have been from a jumble sale. Where she finds this stuff, I’ll never know. Back then, my daughter was little—it didn’t matter much what she crawled around in. But once she grew up? That’s when it began.
My girl has her own style. She picks her own clothes. We shop together, and I make sure she gets what she actually likes. Because I know—if she doesn’t like it, she won’t wear it.
Grandma, though? She sticks to her script. From age ten, it’s been an endless tug-of-war.
*Why won’t you wear that cardigan I bought you?!*
*Because I don’t like it.*
*You’re spoiled and ungrateful!* Mum snaps, glaring at me. *This is your doing!*
And I’m just tired. Tired of explaining that love isn’t about forcing your choices. I’ve asked her, so many times:
*Please, just don’t buy her clothes. Give her cash, a gift card, a book, jewellery—anything but clothes.*
But Mum won’t hear it. She’s convinced she’s right. That we’re just ungrateful. That her granddaughter is rude, unappreciative. That I’m a bad mother because I *let her have her way.*
The truth? I just let my daughter be herself. And I hope, one day, Mum will understand. Before it’s too late. Before the wall between them grows too high to climb.
