She’s my mum… but God, it hurts to hear nothing but disapproval from her.
I’m forty-one. On paper, I’ve got it all—a husband, kids, a career, a home. A proper grown woman, right? But inside, I’m still that little girl staring up at her, desperate for just one warm word, one scrap of praise. Just once. Just a whisper of pride. But no. Decades later, that sting of never feeling loved by her still burns.
We’re three sisters. I’m the eldest. All my life, I thought I had to be her golden girl—the responsible one, the one who got it right. Firstborns always are, aren’t they? But Mum never saw it that way. She made sure I knew. My middle sister was the “difficult” one—skipped school, talked back, caused scenes, but it was always, “Oh, that’s just her spirit.” And the youngest? Mum’s darling. Quiet, gentle, neat. She’d even tiptoe in at night to check if she was still breathing, she was so delicate. Me? I might as well have been invisible.
Don’t get me wrong—I don’t blame my sisters. They’ve got their own lives. But this ache? It’s not for them. It’s for her. I spent my whole life trying to earn her approval. Straight A’s at school—even retook tests for a better mark. Never gave my teachers trouble—model student. Didn’t beg for toys, never threw tantrums. Just wanted her to say she was proud.
But every visit, it’s the same. “You’ve let yourself go,” “Honestly, why can’t you do anything right?” “Where did I go wrong with you?” I’d brush it off—”That’s just how she is,” “She’s tired,” “She doesn’t know another way.” But after years of sleepless nights with the kids, grinding at work, holding my marriage together, to hear it again? “Your house is a mess,” “You can’t cook,” “Your children are feral”—it breaks me.
When I had my son, she practically shoved me back to the office. “You’re wasting away at home! Get back out there!” Then when I did? “Oh, so now you’re too busy for your family. Career over everything, eh? And trust you to be hopeless at that too.”
Round and round it goes. The comparisons. The youngest—”such a beauty.” The middle—”landed herself a good man, doing well.” And me? The mistake. Every time, I bite my tongue. Swallow the tears. Because if I snap back? “Oh, so now you’re ungrateful too? Nothing’s ever good enough for you!”
Sometimes I want to scream, “Mum, why don’t you love me? What did I do? Why am I never enough?” But I can’t. I’m terrified that if I let it all out, she’ll walk away. And I can’t lose her—even if she hurts me. She’s still my mum. Like roots, like air. Without her, I’d be nothing.
My husband says, “Just tell her. Maybe it’ll wake her up.” But he doesn’t get it. For him, it’s simple. For me? She’s everything. And stupid as it sounds, I still wait. Wait for the day she might turn to me and say, “Love, you’ve done me proud.”
So I keep waiting. Like I always have.
