You know how silence can sometimes speak louder than shouting? A year ago, my mum said to me, “You’re getting in the way of my life.” And something just clicked inside me—not loudly, but for good. Now she’s calling nonstop, turning up unannounced, guilt-tripping me, demanding my attention. Her loneliness is suddenly my fault. Her emptiness is my responsibility. Funny how no one remembers how it all started…
I’m Emily. I’m from Manchester. I’ve got a husband, a little boy, a job, and a past I still can’t talk about without that familiar sting. My childhood? The smell of booze, shouting through the walls, and Mum in tears. My dad was a drunk. The bad kind. Not just a pint at the pub—he drank like there was no tomorrow. And then he’d lose it—hitting Mum, humiliating her. I prayed she’d leave him. Begged her to pack her bags and go. But she stayed. She put up with it.
By the time I got into uni, it was just the two of us—Dad had finally gone. Or he would’ve, if Nan hadn’t passed. After the funeral, Mum finally filed for divorce, and we stayed in the two-bed flat Nan left to us equally.
I moved into student halls—saved time on the commute and just wanted a bit of independence. I’d come home on weekends, help out. But when I graduated, my boyfriend and I decided to get married. That’s when the question came up—where would we live? I worked up the courage to ask Mum if we could stay with her for a bit. It was my flat too, after all.
Her answer is burned into my memory:
*“When do I get to live my life?! I’ve done my time—enough already! I want to live for me!”*
I didn’t argue. Didn’t cry. Just stepped back. My mother-in-law offered to take us in, and we said yes. Back then, I told myself Mum was just tired. She had every right. I swallowed the hurt, didn’t let it show. Just kept my distance.
Then I got pregnant. We weren’t ready, but we weren’t scared either. My husband picked up extra shifts, I found remote work. We made it work. My mother-in-law became my guardian angel—helping with the baby, giving me time to sleep, to work. We started saving for a place of our own. It was hard, but we managed.
And Mum? Mum didn’t even call. Not during the pregnancy, not after the birth. Not a word, not a visit. Like she’d vanished. No gifts, no interest, nothing.
Then suddenly, a year later, it started. Calls every day. *“I’m lonely,” “I’m struggling,” “My blood pressure’s up,” “You never call,” “You don’t need me.”* She started dropping by unannounced, demanding I bring my son over, guilt-tripping me:
*“I raised you, and you can’t even be bothered to spend time with me. Left to grow old alone. So ungrateful.”*
That’s when it really hurt. Not because of what she said—but because it’s so easy for her to forget how she shut me out when I needed her.
Mum wasn’t there when my hands shook with fear before labour. She never asked how I was coping with sleepless nights. Never held her grandchild. Now she wants love, attention, warmth—like none of it happened. Like I owe her.
My husband thinks she’s probably just lonely, that some relationship ended and now she’s remembered I exist. Says I’ve become her “project.” But I’m not a doll. I’ve got my own family now. A toddler, a job, responsibilities. I can’t be her emotional crutch after she cut me out when it suited her.
I don’t know what to do. Staying quiet hurts. Picking a fight isn’t what I want. But I can’t just play along anymore. Being a daughter doesn’t mean being a doormat. And you can’t demand love when it’s convenient—not after you were the one who walked away.
