My mum takes offence that I can’t spend all my time with her. It’s as if she doesn’t understand my life isn’t just about her anymore. She calls in tears, accuses me, sulks, manipulates—if I don’t visit or answer the phone within half an hour, it’s a crisis. I’m twenty-nine. Married for five years. Two young children. And as you can imagine, free time doesn’t exist.
Our youngest isn’t even in nursery yet—the moment we try, she’s back within days, feverish, sniffly, battling another chest infection. So my husband and I decided: I’d stay home until she’s stronger. It’s exhausting, but better than endless trips to the clinic.
In this chaos, you forget yourself. Every day’s the same—cooking, cleaning, feeding, comforting, playing, soothing. And you’ve got to be warm, patient, cheerful, so they grow up feeling loved. But Mum? She acts like I’m lounging on the sofa, binge-watching telly and scrolling through my phone.
Every call from her is laced with guilt. *”Why haven’t you come?” “I’m lonely!” “You could at least bring groceries!”* She lives clear across London, and getting there with two little ones is a nightmare. Traffic, tube changes, tantrums—but who cares about that?
Our flat’s in constant disarray. Toys, books, cushions strewn everywhere. Tidying feels pointless—it’s chaos again in minutes. And now she expects me to trek to hers and clean there, too? I’m running on empty. But she won’t hear it. To her, I’m not a person—just a servant who owes her attention.
Does she ever ask how *I* am? That my back aches, that I’m so tired I could fall asleep standing, that we barely get a proper meal? No. Just her loneliness. Why can’t *she* visit? Play with the kids, make a soup? Like normal grandmothers do.
After I gave birth, she turned up—with complaints. I could barely stand, stitches still raw, and there she was, perched on the sofa waiting to be served. *”The soup’s too greasy,”* she sniffed, *”hardly a proper meal.”* I wanted the ground to swallow me. I’d just had a baby! But to her, I was a hostess with staff.
It’s only gotten worse. The jabs, the sulks. Never once has she asked how I’m coping. Never offered help. The kids are *my* burden, but she demands I cater to *her*.
A few weeks ago, we had a row. She screamed that I was ungrateful, that she raised me, and now I’m selfish. For once, I stayed silent. No excuses. The calls stopped. No texts. Just quiet.
And you know what?
I feel lighter. Truly. Deeply. For the first time in years, I breathe without guilt, without her voice hissing *”you owe me.”* I sleep better. The air’s clearer.
Sometimes I wonder—why do I mourn a mother who stopped being one long ago? In her world, there’s only her. Her needs. Her moods. My exhaustion, my children, my life—just background noise.
I won’t go back to that cycle. Let her live as she pleases. But she doesn’t get to drag me down anymore.
