**Diary Entry**
I’m thirty now, yet I still don’t live my own life. Mum decides everything for me, and I can’t break free.
Thirty years old—an age when some people have children and mortgages, while I have no freedom, no personal space, no voice of my own. Because Mum is always there. Mum who won’t let go. Mum who monitors my every move. And I let her. I know it’s my fault. I never learned to say no.
My father vanished long before I was born. Mum never spoke of him—just silence, as if he never existed. I was ill often as a child—bronchitis, measles, whooping cough, chickenpox. I didn’t go to nursery; Mum cared for me at home. We lived with my grandparents, who supported us. Mum was a piano teacher by training but only started working when I turned fifteen.
I was her whole world. She lived for me, breathed for me, shielded me from everything. If I fell, I wasn’t allowed outside. If I caught a cold, no ice cream. Every little thing felt like a threat. One step out of line, and there was panic. I got used to it.
I finished music school, went to university, became a piano teacher—just like Mum. As a child, I hardly had any friends. Mum didn’t let me mix with anyone, convinced they were “unsuitable.” Instead, we went to the theatre, concerts, read books together. I lived like a character from a Victorian novel—minus the suitors and grand balls.
University changed little. Grandpa helped me get a job at a music school. I liked teaching, the children were sweet, Mum was happy—safe, surrounded by respectable women, no “bad influences.” I had almost no friends. The two girls I tried befriending drifted away—we couldn’t meet up, Mum didn’t approve.
Five years ago, *he* appeared—the new guitar teacher. Kind, clever, handsome. A hero straight out of a romance. We went on a date. I was happy. Briefly.
That first evening, Mum rang every ten minutes, working herself into hysterics. He was terrified. The second time, I turned off my phone. When I got home, an ambulance was outside. She’d called hospitals, the police, my colleagues. They took her away in crisis. There was no third date. For the first time, I felt anger. I stayed with a friend. She begged, “Don’t go back. Or you’ll never be free.”
I ignored Mum’s calls, texting that I was fine. She came to my workplace, made scenes, landed in hospital again. I couldn’t take it—I went back. Guilt lodged in me like a splinter. My friend pleaded with me to stay. I didn’t listen. And from then on, everything froze.
Now I’m thirty. Mum and I go to the theatre, visit spas, have Sunday lunches together. No relationships, no friends, no freedom. Every attempt to escape sends me spiralling. I’m afraid—afraid she won’t survive me leaving. That if I dare, the worst will happen. And I’d never forgive myself. I’d be the reason she died.
I want to live my own life. But I can’t. I don’t know how to be cruel. How to choose myself. I’m terrified of ending up like her—lonely, trapped, broken. More and more, I wonder if there’s simply no way out.
