Mum demands that I clean her house every single day. But I have my own family, children, and life—and I can’t take it anymore.
I’m twenty-nine years old. I’ve been married for five years. My husband and I have two little ones—our youngest, Lily, is only three and hasn’t started nursery yet. The moment we enrol her, she falls ill, and we’re stuck at home for weeks, juggling sickness and exhaustion. So, we decided: until she’s stronger, I’ll stay with her. After all, the house won’t clean itself, dinner won’t cook itself, and the kids won’t raise themselves.
Every day is a marathon—laundry, nappies, toys, tantrums, helping our older one 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 on a building site.
But try explaining that to my mother.
Mum acts as if it doesn’t matter that I have my own family, my own burdens. She rings every day, never asking how I am or how the grandkids are doing. Just accusations:
*”Spent the day lounging about, watching telly, did you?”*
*”Too busy scrolling online?”*
*”Why haven’t you come over?”*
*”Why haven’t you cleaned my kitchen?”*
*”When are you bringing my groceries?”*
She lives on the other side of London. With traffic, it’s a full-blown expedition—and I have to drag both kids along because there’s no one to watch them. By the time we arrive, endure the lecture about how *”lazy”* I am, and I’ve scrubbed her floors, it’s evening. I’m shattered. And who’s cleaning *my* house? Who’s feeding *my* children?
I’ve tried explaining how stretched thin I am. But all I get is guilt—tears down the phone, accusations:
*”You’re so selfish!”*
*”I’m struggling, and you’ve abandoned me!”*
*”Other daughters help their mothers—what’s wrong with you?”*
But where’s *her* help? Not once since the children were born has she visited just to spend time with them. Not once has she said:
*”Darling, take a break—I’ll look after the little ones.”*
When I first came home from hospital after giving birth, she dropped by—not with soup or kindness, but like a guest expecting service. I could barely stand, yet she sat there waiting for me to serve her. Apparently, it was *”awkward”* for her to help herself to anything from the fridge. I hobbled around the kitchen, stitches aching, just to avoid hearing how *”the house is a mess and the woman of it is useless.”*
And then came the complaints:
*”The soup’s too greasy.”*
*”Over-salted.”*
*”Where’s the proper table setting?”*
Nothing’s changed since. She doesn’t visit. Doesn’t ask after me. Just calls to scold. Demands I trek to her house daily to clean. But I’m not made of steel.
A few weeks ago, we had a massive row—the worst yet. I snapped, said everything I’d bottled up. She hasn’t called since. And honestly? Neither have I. And I’m happier for it.
For the first time in years, I feel free. Calm. At peace. I can breathe without dreading the ring of my phone. I don’t have to feel guilty for living my own life.
If I’d known how simple it was, I’d have stood up to her years ago. I don’t owe constant devotion to someone who doesn’t respect me. That’s not love—it’s control.
Now I know: I don’t have to prove I’m worthy of being her daughter. I’m a good mum, a good wife, a good person. If she can’t see that, that’s her loss.
Let her live her life. Mine is here, with my family. And that’s all that matters.
