Mum kicked me out when I was eighteen, and now she’s begging for help. To this day, I still don’t know if she ever loved me at all.
I was sixteen when she first brought a new man into the house. She and Dad had split years before, and back then, I still held onto hope that maybe things would work out between them. But when Simon showed up, it only got worse. He wasn’t cruel—not exactly. He just made it clear from the start that I was a burden. In his eyes, I wasn’t his partner’s daughter—just some random girl in the way of his “fresh start.”
A year later, Mum had his son—my little brother, Oliver. I adored him from the minute he was born. I fed him, rocked him to sleep, took him for walks. Mum went back to work early, afraid of losing her job. And then she just dropped it on me: *“You’ll have to put uni on hold. Someone’s got to look after Ollie, and it’s not going to be me.”*
I didn’t argue. I already felt like a guest in that house. But that was the final nail in the coffin. No one asked me anything anymore—they just ordered me around.
Simon had a temper. Anything could set him off, and I was always the one to blame. Forgot to wash up, left the laundry, fed Ollie a minute late—every little thing set him off. That night, he came home early and saw the dishes piled in the sink. I hadn’t had time—Ollie was running a fever again. But he didn’t care. He just started screaming, slamming doors, calling me a *freeloader,* a *waste of space,* saying I was just *living off them.*
When Mum got home, I thought maybe, just maybe, she’d hear me out. But she stood right beside him. Wouldn’t even look me in the eye when she said, *“If you won’t pull your weight, pack your things. We’ve given you enough. Time you stopped taking advantage.”*
I left that night. Thank God for Nan—she took me in. I spent nights sobbing into her shoulder, clutching a pillow. Mum never called. Not once. Never asked where I was, never wondered if I was okay. Not even when Nan got sick, when we were barely scraping by on her pension and my measly wages. The two of us just struggled through alone.
By my eighteenth birthday, I was waitressing at a café, studying in the evenings. Money was tight—Nan’s pension went on medicine and bills. I covered the rest. Years passed, things got easier. I earned more, finished my studies, and we finally had a little extra.
When Nan passed, she left me her flat. I thought maybe then, Mum would show up—if not out of guilt, then greed. But no. It was like I didn’t exist to her.
Then, at twenty-four, I met Daniel. He became my rock, my real family. We got married, had two beautiful girls. For the first time, I knew what love without conditions felt like—no shouting, no fear, no silent resentment. We had ten good years. Then, one day, someone knocked at the door.
I opened it. And there she was. My mother.
*“Hello, love… I need help. I’ve got nowhere to go. Simon left. Ollie… well, he’s fallen in with a bad crowd. I’m alone. The pension isn’t enough. Please, help me.”*
Not a single apology. No *“I’m sorry.”* No *“How have you been?”* No *“I shouldn’t have done that to you.”* Just complaints. Just *“I’m struggling.”* Just *“Help me.”*
I looked at her, anger burning behind my eyes, and said the words I’d held in for years: *“Did you ever once care how Nan and I managed? Were you ever going to pick up the phone? I cried myself to sleep, worked twelve-hour shifts, barely survived—and now you show up like none of it happened?”*
She went pale, clutching her bag, and said coldly, *“If you won’t help, I’ll take you to court. The law says you have to provide for your mother.”*
I slammed the door in her face. Whispered, *“Do what you want. You’re not my mother anymore.”*
Then I broke down. Daniel held me while I sobbed. The girls hid, confused. And there, on the sofa, I finally let myself feel every bit of the pain—the loneliness, the abandonment.
Later, when the anger faded, I wondered… was I too harsh? She *was* my mum. She raised me, badly, but she did. Maybe, one day, I’ll find it in me to forgive. But right now? I can’t. And maybe I shouldn’t have to.