When I gave birth to Emily, I was only twenty. Just a girl myself—naive, hopelessly in love with her father. He left when she was barely a year old. Packed his bags and vanished, saying he wasn’t ready, that life was just beginning. I was alone, with no support, no parents—Mum had died young, and Dad had walked out on us when I was little.
I worked two jobs, lived in a cramped flat, and Emily was often ill. I carried her from doctor to doctor, queued for hours, sometimes dozing off on clinic benches. I had no time for myself. My life revolved around her. Buying a dress meant skipping her medicine. Going on a date meant leaving her with someone, and I couldn’t trust anyone.
Emily grew up bright. Top of her class. I scraped together money for tutors, courses, after-school clubs. Cried at night when she struggled. Celebrated harder than she did when she got into medical school on a full scholarship.
Then everything changed.
In her second year, she met James. Ten years older, divorced, with a child. I was horrified.
“Emily, are you sure? He’s not right for you.”
“Stay out of my life! I’m not a child anymore!” she snapped.
With each month, she drifted further. James could do no wrong in her eyes. His ex-wife was a nightmare, his job unfair, people jealous. And me? The controlling mother who’d ruined her life. His words, not mine.
I bit my tongue. But one day, I cracked.
“He’s using you. Manipulating you. This isn’t love.”
“You’re just jealous! You never had a man like him, so you’re bitter!”
It cut deep.
A year later, she announced they were marrying. Moving in with him.
I helped pack her things, bought her a quilt, dishes. When we said goodbye, she didn’t even hug me.
“Don’t act like this is hard for you. You always wanted me gone,” she whispered.
And she left.
After the wedding, I barely saw her. I called. I texted. Replies grew shorter, then stopped. Then she blocked my number.
A friend told me James had convinced her I was toxic—that I’d poisoned her childhood, made her incapable of living.
Two years passed. I spotted her by chance in Tesco. She was with him, exhausted, hollow-eyed.
“Emily, love—” I stepped closer.
“Don’t,” she hissed. “You’re not my mother anymore.”
She walked away.
I stood between the cereal aisles, trembling, feeling every sleepless night, every skipped meal, every hospital vigil dissolve into nothing. Erased, like a scribbled page torn from a notebook.
I don’t know if she’ll ever come back. If she’ll remember me holding her through fevers, skipping meals to buy her books, sacrificing everything so she could have a future.
But I know this: I am her mother. Even if she denies it, that truth remains. And I’ll love her anyway—even from where it no longer hurts.
Sometimes, love means letting go, even when it breaks you. Because holding on too tight can push them further away.
