When I gave birth to Emily, I was just twenty—a girl myself. Naive, hopelessly in love with her father. He left when she wasn’t even a year old. Packed his bags and vanished. Said he wasn’t ready, that life was just beginning. I was alone—no family, no support. My mum had died young, and my dad had walked out on us when I was little.
I worked two jobs, lived in a cramped flat, and Emily was always ill. I carried her from doctor to doctor, queued for hours, sometimes dozing off on clinic benches. I had no time for myself. I lived only for her. Buying a dress meant skipping her medicine. Going on a date meant leaving her with someone I didn’t trust.
Emily grew up clever. Top of her class. I scrimped for tutors, courses, after-school clubs. Cried at night when she struggled. Celebrated harder than she did when she got into med school on a full scholarship.
Then everything changed.
In her second year, she met a man—Oliver. Ten years older, divorced, with a child. I was stunned.
“Emily, are you sure? He’s not right for you.”
“Stay out of my life! I’m not a child anymore!” she snapped.
With every month, she slipped further away. Oliver was perfect in her eyes. Everyone else was to blame—his ex-wife was a witch, 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. He’s manipulative. 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 told me they were getting married. Moving in with him.
I helped her pack, bought her a quilt, dishes. When we said goodbye, she didn’t even hug me.
“Don’t pretend this is hard for you. You always wanted me gone,” she whispered.
Then she left.
After the wedding, I barely saw her. I called. I texted. Replies got shorter. Then she blocked my number.
A friend told me Oliver had finally convinced her—I was toxic, a poison, the reason she couldn’t function. That I’d ruined her childhood.
Two years passed. I spotted her by chance in Tesco. She was with him. Tired eyes, shoulders hunched.
“Emily, love—” I stepped closer.
“Don’t,” she hissed. “You’re not my mother anymore.”
And she walked away.
I stood between the cereal aisles, my whole body shaking. All those years—sleepless nights, feverish brows, hospital wards, skipped meals—vanished. Ripped from her life like a scribbled page.
I don’t know if she’ll come back. If she’ll remember me by her bedside when she was ill. Going hungry to buy her books. Giving up everything so she could have a future.
But I know this: I’m her mother. Even if she denies it, that won’t change. And I’ll love her anyway. Even from where it doesn’t hurt anymore.
