Sometimes silence screams louder than any argument. A year ago, my mother told me, *”You’re in the way of my life.”* And something inside me snapped—not loudly, but irreversibly. Now she calls constantly, turns up unannounced, guilts me, and demands my attention. Her loneliness has become my fault. Her emptiness, my responsibility. Yet somehow, no one remembers how it all began…
My name is Emily. I’m from Manchester. I have a husband, a young son, a job, and a past I still can’t speak about without bitterness. My childhood smelled of stale whiskey, shouting through thin walls, and my mother’s tears. My father drank—not just a pint at the pub, but like a man drowning. And when the rage took hold, he’d hit her, humiliate her. I prayed she’d leave. Begged her to pack a bag and walk out. But she stayed. Endured it.
When I got into university, it was just the two of us—Dad had finally gone. Or he would’ve, if not for Nan’s funeral. After the burial, Mum finally filed for divorce, and we stayed in the little two-bed flat Nan left us, split equally.
I moved into student halls—saved on travel time and craved just a shred of independence. Weekends, I’d come home, help where I could. But after graduation, my boyfriend and I decided to marry. Then came the unavoidable question: *where would we live?* I gathered my courage and asked Mum if we could stay with her for a while. After all, it was my flat too.
Her reply still echoes:
*”When do* I *get to live my life? I’ve done my time—had enough! I want to live for myself now!”*
I didn’t argue. Didn’t cry. Just stepped back. My mother-in-law offered us their spare room. We took it. Back then, I told myself Mum was just exhausted. Had every right to be. I swallowed the hurt, kept it buried. Stopped reaching out.
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 scraped by. My mother-in-law became my guardian angel—helping with the baby, giving me time to sleep, to breathe. We started saving for a place of our own. It was hard, but we managed.
And Mum? Mum never called. Not during the pregnancy. Not after the birth. Not a word, not a visit. She vanished. As if she’d wiped me from existence. No gifts. No interest.
Then, out of nowhere, a year later—it started. Calls every day. *”I’m lonely,”* *”My blood pressure’s up,”* *”You never call,”* *”You don’t need me anymore.”* She began showing up unannounced, demanding I bring my son over, guilt-tripping me:
*”I raised you, and you can’t even spare an hour for me. Left to rot alone in my old age. You’re ungrateful.”*
That’s when it really stung. Not because of her words—but because she’d erased her own refusal to be there when I needed her most.
She wasn’t there when my hands shook before childbirth. Never asked how I coped with sleepless nights. Never held my son. Now she wants love. Warmth. Attention. As if none of it happened. As if I *owe* her.
My husband thinks she’s lonely—that some fling fizzled out, and now I’m her “project.” But I’m not a doll. I have a family. A child. Work. A life. I can’t be her emotional crutch, not after she cut me loose when it suited her.
I don’t know what to do. Silence eats at me. A confrontation? I don’t want it. But I can’t keep pretending either. Being a daughter doesn’t mean being a doormat. And love? You can’t demand it on command. Not from someone you tossed aside.