At twenty-nine, I’ve been married for five years. My husband and I have two young children—my youngest daughter is just three, still too fragile for nursery. The moment we try, she falls ill, and we’re stuck at home for weeks on end. So, we made the choice: until she’s stronger, I’ll stay with her. The house won’t clean itself, dinner won’t magically appear, and children don’t raise themselves.
Every day is a relentless marathon—laundry, toys, nappies, tantrums, helping my eldest with schoolwork. I pour my heart into them, hour after hour, teaching, guiding, loving. By evening, my legs ache as if I’ve spent the day hauling bricks.
But none of that matters to my mother.
She acts as though my family, my exhaustion, my children don’t exist. Every day, her call comes, and with it, a barrage of accusations. No “How are you?” No interest in her grandchildren. Just venom:
“Lazing about again, were you? Glued to the telly?”
“Scrolling through nonsense online?”
“Why haven’t you visited?”
“Why haven’t you cleaned my kitchen?”
“When will you bring my shopping?”
She lives clear across London. With traffic, it’s a bloody expedition. And I have to drag both kids along—there’s no one to watch them. By the time we arrive, endure her lectures about how “lazy” I am, and tidy her house single-handedly, the day’s gone, and I’m spent. Who cleans *my* home? Who feeds *my* children?
I’ve tried explaining—begged her to understand I’m drowning. Her response? Tears. Guilt. More venom.
“You’re selfish!”
“I’m suffering, and you’ve abandoned me!”
“Other mothers get help—why can’t I?”
But where’s *her* help? Not once has she bothered to visit just to cuddle her grandkids. Not once has she said, “Love, take a break—I’ll watch them.”
When I came home from hospital after giving birth, she swanned in like a guest expecting tea and crumpets. I could barely stand, stitches burning, yet there she sat, waiting for *me* to serve her. Too “improper” to fetch her own biscuit, apparently. I hobbled about, terrified of hearing her sneer about “a slovenly house and a useless wife.”
Then came the complaints:
“The soup’s too greasy.”
“Over-salted.”
“Where’s the proper table setting?”
Nothing’s changed. She never visits. Never asks after me. Only calls to scold, demanding I drop everything to scrub her floors. But I’m not made of steel.
Weeks ago, we had it out. A proper row. I snapped, said every bottled-up word. Since then? Silence. And—God help me—I’m *relieved*.
For the first time in years, I breathe freely. No more dread when the phone rings. No more guilt for living my own life.
If I’d known it would feel this liberating, I’d have stood my ground years ago. I don’t owe servitude to someone who treats me with contempt. That’s not love. It’s control.
Now I know: I don’t need to prove I’m worthy of being her daughter. I’m a good mother. A good wife. A good person. If she can’t see that? That’s *her* loss.
Let her live as she pleases. My family needs me. That’s all that matters.
