I’m sorry, Mum, but the further we are from you, the better for us. We’re leaving. Farewell.
It wasn’t even a conversation. It was a monologue—my final say, like a verdict. And you know what? I didn’t expect her to reply. 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 tantrums, the manipulations. That’s how she is—my mum—a woman accustomed to controlling, ordering, breaking.
“She’s draining you of all your money!” she yelled when she found out my wife and I were moving out.
Really, Mum? Are those your words? You, who lived off Dad your whole life? You awaited his paycheck like it was a celebration. Forever dissatisfied, forever blaming him. My wife, she’s nothing like you. We both earn, both support the family, pay off our debts together, and take holidays together. It’s all equal. Partnership, not subjugation. We’re a team. You’re used to submission. Used to the idea that a man should stay silent and endure.
“She’s not good enough for you!” came her voice again.
No, Mum. She is. Because she loves me not for money, not for looks, not for status. She loves the real me. With all my quirks, habits, and scars inside. And I love her. Not for something, but just because. I don’t need “the perfect girl”—your friend’s daughter that you kept pushing on me. The one who has three children with three different men. Don’t judge, Mum, if you don’t know the truth. And stay out of it.
“Those aren’t your children! You’re wasting time on someone else’s!”
Mum, I’ll decide who is “mine.” These children are a part of my life. I love them. Even if they weren’t my wife’s, I would stay. Because fatherhood is not about blood. It’s about choice. And I chose to be there. To be their support. To be a dad. You never attended a single one of their birthdays. Never gave them a toy or even a smile.
“She can’t even make a stew!”
Thank goodness! I hated stew since childhood. But you made me eat it. To the last spoonful. Remember how you threatened me with the belt if I didn’t finish? My wife doesn’t make stew—and I’m happy. I’m free. I eat what I love. I live how I want.
“She doesn’t even darn your socks!”
Correct. She doesn’t. Because I don’t need darned socks. I’m not Dad, who wore old things because you wanted a new dress. I buy my own stuff. I have everything I need. And my wife isn’t a housemaid. She’s a person. An individual. A partner.
“You clean the house yourself! What kind of woman allows that?”
A normal one, Mum. A modern, working woman who respects herself and me. I’m not disabled. I can wash dishes, cook lunch, make the bed. It doesn’t make me weak. It makes us equals. We have respect, not dictatorship.
“He’s not your son!”
He’s my son! And if you don’t believe it, have a test. I’d love to see the look on your face when you see the results. But, you know, it’s not about DNA. He’s mine because I’m there. Because I love him. Yet you’ve never come to see him. Not at a school play, not on his birthday. Not even sent a card.
“She’ll leave you! Find someone else!”
Possibly. And if she does, it would be fair. Because you’re doing everything you can to drive her away. You belittle her. You watch her at work. You offer her money to leave me. Spread nasty rumours about her. You think I don’t know? You think she doesn’t tell me?
So, Mum, we’re moving. To another city. We’ve found a nursery, a school. Found jobs. Everything’s planned, everything’s ready. Where exactly, I won’t say. Sorry, but the further from you, the easier for us. The better our chances for happiness. We want to live, not just survive under your thumb.
Goodbye, Mum. Don’t try to find us.
