You just stood by and watched my marriage fall apart: I tried not to interfere in my daughter’s relationship, and now she blames me.
My daughter Emily—she’s always been a whirlwind. Me and my husband raised her in a quiet, peaceful home out in the suburbs of Manchester. No shouting, no arguments. But Emily got my mother’s temper—all fire and stubbornness, quick to take offence and dead set on having her way. She never even met her grandma, but it’s like she copied her straight out of a picture. And it breaks my heart.
Emily can’t stand being told what to do. Any bit of advice goes in one ear and out the other, or worse, she takes it as an insult. For years, my husband and I tried to rein her in, guide her, but it was like talking to a brick wall. Even back in primary school, she’d twist situations to get her way, flashing that sweet little smile while she played people like fiddles. She’d only hear what suited her, never what she needed to. The smallest criticism would set her off—full-on tears, screaming, the works. Her teenage years were pure chaos. I was terrified she’d fall in with the wrong crowd, start smoking, or—God forbid—get pregnant. None of that happened, but she still ran us ragged.
When Emily finished school, she announced she was grown and moving out. Packed a bag, rented a flat in central London with a mate, and that was that. Uni? Nah, she reckoned earning money was more important. For two years, we hardly saw her. Calls were rare, visits nonexistent. I aged a decade from worry, lying awake at night braced for a call from A&E or the police. But then, out of nowhere, things shifted. She started popping round on weekends—first now and then, then more often. We’d have tea, skirt around the past, and I let myself hope the storm had passed.
I tried teaching her to cook, to manage a home, but she’d cut me off with, *“I know what I’m doing!”* Then came Jake—steady, patient, the kind who’d turn her outbursts into a joke and calm her right down. Around him, she seemed happier, more settled. They got married, and I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking she’d finally grown up. Oh, how wrong I was.
Their happy-ever-after lasted months. Her old ways crept back. Every row with Jake ended with her on our doorstep, staying the night. Knowing how she hated advice, I bit my tongue, just watched from the sidelines. Once, she swore she’d never go back to him. Two days later, they’d made up like nothing happened. I kept my mouth shut, scared of wrecking whatever fragile peace they had.
But Jake’s patience ran out. One day, after another blow-up, Emily came home to a note. He’d left, suggesting a divorce. That day, she lost it completely. As if being dumped wasn’t enough, she got sacked from her job too. For two weeks, I looked after her like a child—cooking, talking her through nights, trying to distract her. Then one evening, I walked in to find her with a suitcase.
*“This is your fault!”* she lashed out before I’d even shut the door.
*“Hello to you too,”* I said, baffled. *“What’s going on? What did I do?”*
*“You let Jake walk away! You saw how he treated me, and you did nothing!”*
*“You never listened to a word I said. Always insisted you knew best,”* I reminded her.
*“Oh, so one try was enough? You just sat back and watched my marriage burn!”* Every word was a knife.
*“Don’t you dare! I had nothing to do with your fights. You’re adults—you made your own mess. How is that on me?”*
*“Typical—it’s never your fault! Thanks for all the ‘help.’ I was right to leave after school. Wish I’d never come back!”* And with that, she slammed out so hard the windows rattled.
I stood there, stunned. After all that care, all that staying out of her life like she wanted—to her, I’m the villain. My girl never grew up. Still looking for someone to blame. It kills me that she thinks I failed her. But I’m done trying to convince her otherwise. It’s her life. Let her live it how she wants.
So why does it hurt so much?
