Years ago, my mother appeared to others as a kind, gentle, and smiling woman. But I, her daughter, knew the side she never showed to strangers—the side where, beneath a facade of warmth, lay an endless desperation to cling to any man, no matter the cost. And that cost was the shattered bond between us, between mother and daughter, and later, grandmother and granddaughter.
My father left us when I was just four. He walked away for another woman, and my mother… she couldn’t bear it. She begged, humiliated herself, called him relentlessly, waited by his doorstep, sobbed into the phone. She claimed she couldn’t manage alone, that raising a child by herself terrified her. But he never returned. Once gone, he was gone for good. My grandmother, my mother’s own mum, dragged her home from those pitiful scenes, ashamed not of her son-in-law, but of her own daughter. My mother grew quiet on the surface, but inside, a clock had started ticking: she must remarry at any cost.
And so she began attaching herself to anyone willing. She clung to each man as if he were her last hope. Infidelity, drunkenness, beatings—even humiliations in front of me—all were forgiven, all endured. As a child, I often listened to her muffled crying behind the bathroom door, watched her cover bruises and claim she’d “just tripped.” Then came the new hair, the new dresses, the frantic weight loss—all to keep him from leaving.
I fought back. I screamed, argued with every one of her men. She’d try to soothe me, pat my head, say, “You don’t understand how hard it is to be alone.” But I did understand. I saw everything. So after school, I left for London, returning home as rarely as possible.
When my grandmother passed, she left me her flat. I sold it, bought a place far from my mother’s ever-changing parade of “loves.” I found steady work, built a quiet life, kept to myself. I married, but my mother didn’t come to the wedding. Her excuse?
“I can’t leave my man alone—he’s anxious, can’t bear travel…”
I sighed. Truthfully, I hadn’t wanted her there, didn’t want her latest “gentleman” at my wedding—a man who, at the time, didn’t even know my name.
For three years, we barely spoke. Occasional calls, nothing more. Then I sent word that I’d had a daughter. She rejoiced, asked to see her granddaughter. The calls became more frequent. She pleaded for a visit.
Five years passed. My girl grew. I relented—perhaps it was time. Let her meet her grandmother, form some fragile thread of connection. My husband and I booked train tickets. I rang my mother: “We’re coming.” Her voice brightened—she’d prepare, she’d be waiting.
But two days before our arrival, the tone shifted.
“You know, we’ve had repairs unexpectedly… and really, the flat’s a bit cramped for you and the child. My husband needs quiet—he’s elderly, not used to children’s noise. Perhaps a hotel? I can recommend a nice one…”
Silence. Then:
“Are you serious?”
“Well… you know how things are. He gets irritable. I don’t want trouble. This way, it’s easier for everyone.”
A fire ignited in my skull. After missing my wedding. After years of silence. After my attempt to bridge the gap—she’d shunt us into a hotel because her husband needed peace? My daughter wasn’t loud. She was well-mannered. But even if she weren’t—this was her granddaughter! I hung up and turned to my husband.
“We’re not going.”
She took offense, called me ungrateful, accused me of misunderstanding her “position.” I saw no point in the visit. We hadn’t planned a trip just to lodge in a hotel beside a mother who valued a stranger over family.
Years pass. She’s still with him—or perhaps another; I’ve stopped keeping track. Our calls are sparse. My daughter’s grandmother is my husband’s mother—the one who bakes pies, tells stories, and never turns her away. My own mother remains in her world, where men come first, and blood ties are an afterthought.
If that’s her choice, so be it. Let her have her silence. But she mustn’t wonder why her granddaughter doesn’t invite her to school plays or send Mother’s Day cards. Silence is a choice—and choices have their price.
