I’m sorry, Mum, but the further we are from you, the better it is for us. We’re leaving. Goodbye.
It wasn’t even a conversation; it was my monologue—my final say, like a verdict. And you know, I wasn’t expecting a response from her. I simply didn’t give her a chance to get a word in because I knew if I did, it would all start again—the blame, the outbursts, the manipulation. That’s just how she is, my mother—a woman accustomed to controlling, commanding, and breaking others down.
“She’s draining you dry!” she shouted when she learned that my wife and I were moving out.
Are you serious, Mum? You, of all people, are saying this? You, who lived off Dad your entire life? You awaited his paycheck like it was a holiday. Always dissatisfied, always blaming him. But my wife is nothing like you. We earn together, we support our family together, repay our loans together, and enjoy our holidays together. Everything we have is shared equally. It’s a partnership, not submission. We’re a team. You, on the other hand, are used to submission. You’re used to men being silent and enduring.
“She’s not worthy of you!” came her voice again.
No, Mum. She is worthy of me because she loves me not for my money, appearance, or status. She loves me for who I am, with all my quirks, habits, and emotional scars. And I love her, not for anything in particular. Just purely. I don’t need “that perfect girl”—the daughter of your friend, whom you tried to pair me with persistently. The one who’s already on her third child with her third partner. Don’t judge, Mum, if you don’t know the truth. And please, stay out of it.
“They’re not your kids! You’re wasting your time on someone else’s!”
Mum, I decide who matters to me. These kids are part of my life. I love them. Even if they weren’t my wife’s children, I would still be here. Being a dad isn’t about biology; it’s about choice. And I chose to be there, to be a support, to be a father. You’ve never attended a single one of their birthdays. You never gave them toys or even a smile.
“She can’t even make a proper English breakfast!”
And thank goodness for that! I hated it ever since I was a child. But you forced me to eat every bite. Remember how you threatened with the belt if I didn’t finish? My wife doesn’t cook it, and I’m perfectly happy. I’m free. I eat what I love. I live the life I want.
“She doesn’t even mend your socks!”
That’s right. She doesn’t. Because I don’t need mended socks. I’m not Dad, who had to wear old clothes because buying yourself a new dress was more important to you. I buy what I need myself. I have everything. My wife isn’t a housemaid. She’s a person. An individual. A partner.
“You tidy up the house yourself! What decent woman allows that?”
A normal one, Mum. A modern woman who works, respects herself and me. I’m not an invalid. I can wash dishes, cook myself a meal, make the bed. It doesn’t make me weak. It makes us equals. We have mutual respect, not dictatorship.
“That’s not your son!”
He is my son! And if you don’t believe it, get a test. I’d love to see your face when you see the result. But, you know, it’s not about DNA. He’s mine because I’m there for him, because I love him. You’ve never once visited, not for any school play, not for his birthday. Not even a card.
“She’ll leave you! She’ll find someone else!”
Maybe. And if she does, it’ll be fair. Because you’re driving her away. You humiliate her, spy on her at work, offer her money to leave me, spread nasty rumors about her. You think I don’t know? You think she doesn’t tell me?
So, Mum, we’re moving away. To another town. We’ve found a nursery, a school. We’ve got jobs lined up. Everything’s planned and sorted. Exactly where, I won’t say. Sorry, but the further away we are from you, the more at ease we are. We have a greater chance at happiness. We want to live, not just survive under your pressure.
Goodbye, Mum. Don’t look for us.
