She’s my mother… Yet how it stings to hear nothing but criticism from her.
I’m forty-one. By all accounts, I’m a grown woman—married, with kids, a job, a home. But inside? Still that same little girl staring into her mother’s eyes, desperate for a scrap of warmth, a kind word, just a hint of pride. Just once. Never happened. After all these years, the wound still smoulders—the ache of a mother’s love that never quite landed.
We’re three sisters. I’m the eldest. Ever since childhood, I thought it was my job to be Mum’s pride, her rock, her golden girl. Firstborn, conscientious, trying her hardest. But Mum? She saw it differently. Never hid it, either. The middle one was the “difficult” one—sassy, skipped school, threw tantrums—but it was always excused with a shrug: “That’s just her.” And the youngest? Mum’s darling. Quiet, neat, no trouble. Mum used to say she’d check on her at night just to make sure she was still breathing, she was that unobtrusive. Me? Practically invisible.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame my sisters. They’ve got their own lives, and none of this is their fault. But the resentment gnaws—not at them, at *her*. At Mum. I spent my whole life chasing her approval. Straight-A student, retook exams just to turn a B into an A. Never gave the teachers a reason to call home—good as gold. Never begged for fancy toys or threw fits. All I wanted was for her to be proud.
And yet, every visit, the same script. “You were never the pretty one.” “Honestly, you’ve no common sense.” “Where did I go *wrong* with you?” I’d brush it off, tell myself, “That’s just her way,” or “She’s tired,” or “She doesn’t know how else to be.” But after years of juggling kids, work, keeping a marriage afloat—then hearing “Your house is a tip,” “Can’t believe you burnt the roast,” “Your kids are feral”—well, it wears thin.
When I had my son, Mum practically shoved me out the door: “You’re turning into a couch potato! Back to work, lazybones.”
So I went back. Then the tune changed: “Oh, so *now* you’re too busy for family. Career-obsessed, and rubbish at that—what do you even *do* all day?”
Round and round we go. The comparisons. The youngest? Gorgeous. The middle? “Landing a bloke like *that*—good for her!” Me? The dud. Every time, I bite my tongue, blink back tears. Because if I dare push back, the guilt-trip starts: “Oh, so *now* I’m the villain! Nothing’s ever good enough for *you*.”
Sometimes I want to scream, “Mum, why don’t you love me? What did I *do*?” But I can’t. I’m scared. Scared that if I let it all out, she’ll shut me out for good. And I couldn’t bear that. However much it hurts, I can’t cut that last thread tying us together.
My husband says, “Just have it out. Maybe she’ll wake up.” But he doesn’t get it. To him, it’s simple. To me? She’s not just a person. She’s my roots. My air. Without her, I’m just a stump. Even when she hurts me, she’s *my mum*. And like a child, I still cling to the hope that one day, she’ll say:
“Love, you’ve done all right. I’m proud of you.”
So I wait. Still waiting. Like I always have.
