For years, my mother has insisted on dressing my daughter, unaware that her efforts only strain their relationship. My daughter is a teenager now, with her own taste, preferences, and style. Yet Grandma stubbornly buys her clothes without asking, consulting, or considering what she might like. She simply arrives with bags of garments, and each time, it ends the same way—tears, arguments, and hurt feelings. Because my daughter won’t wear them. And Mum—she takes it personally.
*”I put so much thought into this, and she won’t even try it on!”* she says reproachfully, as if a child should be grateful for any gift, regardless of how they feel about it.
I remember it all too well from my own childhood. Mum always shopped by three rules: *”It should last ten years,” “It shouldn’t show stains,”* and *”It must be sturdy fabric.”* No one cared about beauty, fashion, or comfort. I was dressed for their convenience, not mine. I had no choice but to accept it—we couldn’t afford otherwise. Only when I started earning my own money did I finally pick clothes for style, not just durability.
Once I was settled, I tried to repay Mum by buying her something nice. But she waved it off immediately.
*”What on earth is this? I’m not a doll. I’m past my twenties. Besides, your things are flimsy—I’d ruin them in one wash!”*
She refused to wear what I chose for her, sticking to clothes that could *”last a decade.”* Fine, I thought. Let her wear what she likes.
But when my daughter was born, Mum dusted off the old script. She dug out bags of my childhood clothes—faded jumpers, aprons, patched-up dresses. I saved a few in decent condition; the rest went in the bin. When Mum found out, she was furious.
*”I saved those for years! How could you?”*
From then on, she started buying *”new”* clothes—at least, new to her. They looked like they’d come from a charity shop. Where she found them, I’ll never know. Back then, my daughter was too young to care what she wore around the house. But as she grew older, the battles began.
My girl has her own style now. She picks her own outfits, and we shop together for things she genuinely likes. Because I know—if she doesn’t love it, she won’t wear it.
Still, Grandma won’t change. Since my daughter turned ten, their clashes have been endless.
*”Why won’t you wear the jumper I bought you?”*
*”Because I don’t like it.”*
*”You’re spoiled and ungrateful!”* Mum snaps, glaring at me. *”This is your fault!”*
I’m just tired. Tired of explaining that love isn’t about control. I’ve begged her:
*”Please, don’t buy her clothes. Give her money, a gift card, a book, jewellery—anything but clothes.”*
But Mum won’t listen. She’s convinced she’s right. That we’re just ungrateful. That her granddaughter is rude and selfish. That I’m a bad mother for *”letting her have her way.”*
The truth? I’m letting 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.
In the end, love doesn’t mean shaping someone to fit your vision—it means respecting who they are. Even when it’s not what you’d choose.
