I’m sorry, Mum, but the further away we are from you, the better! We’re leaving. Goodbye.
It wasn’t even a conversation. It was a monologue—my final words, like a verdict. And you know, I wasn’t expecting her to reply. I simply didn’t give her a chance to utter a word. Because I knew if I did, it would all start over again: accusations, hysterics, manipulations. That’s my mother for you—a woman accustomed to controlling, ordering, and breaking down others.
“She’s draining your money!” she shouted when she found out my wife and I were moving out.
Are you serious, Mum? This is coming from you? The one who’s lived off Dad for as long as I can remember? You used to wait for his paycheck as if it were a holiday. Always dissatisfied, always blaming him. But my wife is nothing like you. We earn together, share the family’s responsibilities, pay our bills, and go on holidays together. Everything’s equal. It’s a partnership, not subordination. We’re a team. But you’re used to subservience. Used to men being silent and enduring.
“She’s not worthy of you!” she exclaimed again.
No, Mum. She is worthy of me. Because she loves me—not for my money, looks, or status. She loves the real me, with all my quirks, habits, and emotional scars. And I love her. Not for anything specific. Just because. I don’t need “that girl”—your friend’s daughter you tried to set me up with. The one who’s now on her third child with a third man. Don’t judge if you don’t know the truth, Mum. And don’t meddle.
“Those aren’t your kids! You’re wasting your time on someone else’s!”
Mum, I’ll decide who matters to me. These children are part of my life. I love them. And even if they weren’t my wife’s kids, I’d still be here. Being a father is about choice, not blood. And I chose to be here, to be a support, to be a dad. Yet, you’ve never been to a single one of their birthdays. Never given them a toy or a smile.
“She can’t even make a roast dinner!”
And thank goodness! I hated roast dinners since childhood. But you forced me to eat every last bit. Remember how you’d threaten me with punishment if I didn’t finish? My wife doesn’t cook roasts, and I’m happy about it. I’m free. Free to eat what I like. To live how I want.
“She doesn’t even darn your socks!”
That’s right. She doesn’t. Because I don’t need patched socks. I’m not Dad, who wore old clothes so you could buy yourself a new dress. I buy my own things. I have everything I need. And my wife is not a housekeeper. She is a person. An individual. A partner.
“You even do the cleaning! What self-respecting woman would allow that?!”
A normal one, Mum. A modern, working, self-respecting woman who respects me too. I’m not helpless. I can wash dishes, cook my lunch, make the bed. It doesn’t make me weak. It makes us equals. We have respect, not a dictatorship.
“He’s not your son!”
He is my son! And if you don’t believe it, do a test. I’d like to see your face when you see the results. But, you know, it’s not about DNA. He’s mine because I’m there for him. Because I love him. And you have never come to see him—not even once. Not to a school event or a birthday. You haven’t even sent a card.
“She’ll leave you! Find someone else!”
Perhaps. And if so, it’ll be fair. Because you’re doing everything possible to drive her away. You humiliate her. Follow her to her workplace. Even offer her money to leave me. You spread nasty rumors about her. Do you think I don’t know? Do you think she doesn’t tell me?
So, Mum, we’ve decided to move. To another town. We found a nursery, a school, and jobs there. Everything is carefully planned and prepared. I’m not going to say where. Sorry, but the farther from you, the easier it is for us. The more chances we have at happiness. We want to live, not just survive under your shadow.
Goodbye, Mum. Don’t try to find us.
