“Mother threw me out when I was eighteen, and now she begs for help”: I still don’t know if she ever loved me
I was sixteen when Mother first brought a new man into the house. She and Father had parted ways long before, and I’d foolishly hoped they might reconcile. But when Arthur arrived, things only grew worse. He wasn’t cruel—not exactly. He simply made it clear I was a burden. To him, I wasn’t his woman’s daughter, just some strange girl in the way of his “fresh start.”
A year later, Mother had his son—my baby brother. I adored the boy from the first moment. I fed him, rocked him, took him for walks. Mother returned to work early, terrified of losing her position. As for me, the choice was made without consultation:
“You’ll put off university for now. Someone has to mind little Thomas. Who else but you?”
I stayed silent. I already felt like a lodger in that house. But that decision sealed it. No one asked me anything—they ordered.
Arthur shouted constantly. Any excuse, and I bore the blame. Unwashed dishes, laundry left undone, the baby fed a minute late—all provoked storms. That evening, he came home early and found the kitchen in disarray. I hadn’t had time; Thomas was feverish again. But Arthur didn’t care. He raged, slammed doors, called me a “freeloader” and a “waste of space,” said I lived off their kindness.
When Mother returned from work, I hoped she might at least hear me out. But she stood beside him. Without meeting my eyes, she said:
“If you won’t do your part, pack your things. We’ve nothing left to give you. Enough of living at our expense.”
I left that very night. Thank God for Gran—she took me in. I wept into her shoulder for weeks, clutching a pillow to muffle the sobs. Mother never called. Not once. Didn’t ask how I fared, didn’t care if I lived or starved. Even when Gran fell ill and we scraped by on pennies, no help came. We survived—just the two of us.
By my eighteenth birthday, I was waitressing at a local café, studying evenings. We lived lean: Gran’s pension covered medicine and the rent; I managed the rest. In time, things eased. I earned more, finished my courses, and we finally had breathing room.
When Gran passed, I stayed in her flat. She’d left it to me. I thought Mother might reappear then—if not out of pity, then greed. But no. She’d vanished, as if I’d never existed.
At twenty-four, I met William. He became my rock, a true husband. We married, had two lovely girls. For the first time, I knew what family meant—no scorn, no fear, no silent resentment. Ten good years passed. Then one day, a knock at the door.
I opened it. There she stood. My mother.
“Hello, darling… I need help. Nowhere to go. Arthur left. Thomas… fell in with a rough lot. I’ve only my pension. Please.”
No apology. No remorse. Just complaints. Just “times are hard.” Just “help me.” Not a word of “how have you managed all these years,” or “forgive me for failing you.” Only that weary, expectant stare.
I held back tears, but the old ache rose sharp in my chest. My voice was steel:
“Did you ever once wonder how Gran and I managed? Were your lips too stiff to pick up the phone? When I cried myself to sleep, worked twelve-hour shifts, did it cross your mind how we struggled? And now you turn up—as if none of it happened?”
She paled. Clutched her handbag and said coldly:
“If you refuse, I’ll take you to court. The law says you must care for your mother.”
I shut the door in her face. Whispered:
“Do as you like. I’m no daughter of yours. And you’re no mother to me.”
Afterward, I wept for hours. William held me, stroked my hair. Our girls hid around the corner, bewildered. Sitting on the sofa, I let the grief wash over me—properly, for the first time in years. Remembered every cut, every lonely night.
Later, when the anger faded, I wondered: Had I been too harsh? She was my mother, after all. She raised me—badly, bitterly—but for seventeen years. How could I forgive her choosing a man over her own child in my darkest hour?
I still have no answer. The hurt runs deep. My heart’s torn in two. Perhaps one day I’ll forgive. But not yet. And perhaps… I shouldn’t have to.
