She just stood by and watched as my marriage fell apart: I tried to stay out of my daughter’s relationship, and now she blames me.
My daughter Maisie is a force of nature. My husband and I raised her in quiet comfort, in our home on the outskirts of Manchester, where shouting and arguments were never heard. But Maisie inherited my mother’s temperament—volatile, loud, stubborn. My mother always got her way, took offense at nothing, and wouldn’t listen to a soul. Maisie, though she never knew her, mimics her mannerisms like a mirror. And it shattered my heart.
Maisie can’t stand criticism. Any advice goes in one ear and out the other, or worse, she takes it as a personal attack. For years, my husband and I tried to guide her, to rein her in, but it was like talking to a brick wall. Even in nursery, she learned to manipulate people with angelic smiles to get what she wanted. She only ever heard what suited her, never what needed to be done. The slightest remark wounded her, sending her into floods of tears or tantrums. Her teenage years were hell. I feared she’d fall in with the wrong crowd, start smoking, or—God forbid—get pregnant. It never happened, but she wore us both down to the bone with worry.
When Maisie left school, she declared herself an adult and moved out. She packed a rucksack and rented a flat in central London with a friend. She ditched university, convinced earning money mattered more. For two years, we barely saw her. She rarely answered calls, never visited. I aged with worry, lying awake each night, dreading a call from hospital or police. But then, things changed. Maisie started dropping by on weekends—first occasionally, then more often. We drank tea, avoided the past, and I let myself hope the storm had passed.
I tried teaching her to cook, to manage a home, but she’d snap: “I know what I’m doing!” Soon, we learned she’d taken up with a boyfriend—Oliver. Calm, good-natured, he had a way of defusing her outbursts with jokes. Around him, Maisie seemed happy, steady. They married soon after, and I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking my girl had finally grown up. How wrong I was.
Their marital bliss lasted mere months. Maisie’s old self returned. After every row with Oliver, she’d flee to us and stay the night. Knowing how she hated advice, I stayed silent, watching from afar. Once, she swore she’d never go back to him. Days later, they’d make up as if nothing happened. I bit my tongue, afraid to disturb her fragile peace.
But Oliver’s patience wasn’t endless. One evening, Maisie came home after another fight to find a note. He’d left, suggesting divorce. That night, she unraveled completely. Not only had her husband walked out, but she’d lost her job too. For two weeks, I nursed her like a child—cooking her meals, talking her through evenings, trying to distract her. Then one day, I walked in to find her with a suitcase.
“This is all your fault!” she spat before I could speak.
“Hello, love. Packing? What have I done?” I faltered.
“Oliver left because of you! You saw how he put up with me—you could’ve stopped him!” She was screaming now.
“You never listened to my advice, always said you’d handle things yourself,” I reminded her.
“You barely tried! You just stood there, watching my marriage collapse!” Every word cut like a knife.
“Don’t you dare! I’m not to blame for your fights. You’re adults—you made your choices. What’s it got to do with me?” I fought back.
“Of course, it’s never your fault! Thanks for all the ‘help’!” She scoffed. “I was right to leave after school. Wish I’d never come back!” With that, she stormed out, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled.
I stood frozen in the silence, stunned. All those days, I’d cared for her, stayed out of her life like she wanted. Yet in her eyes, I’m the root of every disaster. My girl hasn’t grown up at all—still hunting for someone to blame. My heart aches, knowing she thinks me a failure of a mother. But I’m too tired to argue anymore. It’s her life. Let her do as she pleases. So why does it hurt this much?
