My mother always appeared to others as a kind, gentle, and cheerful woman. But I, her daughter, knew the side she never showed to strangers—the side where endless desperation to be with a man, at any cost, lurked beneath the surface. And that cost was shattered relationships with her daughter and granddaughter. Our relationship.
My father left us when I was just four years old. He went off with another woman, and my mother… she could not bear it. She begged, humiliated herself, called incessantly, waited by the door of his flat, sobbed into the telephone. She said she couldn’t manage alone, that she was afraid to raise a child by herself. But he never came back. He walked away—and that was that. My grandmother, my mother’s own mum, had to drag her home from those pitiful scenes. She was ashamed—not of her son-in-law, but of her own daughter. Eventually, my mother seemed to settle, but inside, she had begun a silent countdown: to remarry, no matter what.
And so she did—with anyone who would have her. She clung to each man as though he were her last chance. Infidelity, drunkenness, even beatings—all were forgiven, all endured. As a child, I often heard her muffled crying behind the bathroom door, watched as she covered bruises with makeup, pretending she had “just tripped.” And then—a new hair colour, a new dress, losing two stone. All so “he” wouldn’t leave.
I protested, shouted, fought with every one of her men. She would try to calm me, stroke my hair, and say, “You don’t understand what it’s like to be alone.” But I did understand. I saw everything. So after school, I moved to London for university and made a point of rarely going home.
When my grandmother passed, she left me her flat. I sold it, bought a place far from my mother and her ever-changing “loves,” found work, and began a quiet life of my own. I married—though my mother didn’t come to the wedding. Her excuse was simple:
“I can’t leave my man alone. He’s anxious—doesn’t travel well.”
I sighed. Truthfully, I hadn’t invited her because I didn’t want her latest “gentleman” at my wedding—a man who, at the time, didn’t even know my name.
For three years, we barely spoke. Occasional calls, nothing more. Then I had a daughter. She was thrilled and wanted to see her granddaughter. The calls grew more frequent, urging me to visit.
Five years passed. My little girl grew older. I thought, fine, perhaps it was time. To let her meet her grandmother, to form some kind of bond. My husband and I booked our tickets, and I rang my mother: “Mum, we’re coming soon.” She sounded delighted, promising to prepare everything.
But two days before our arrival, oddness crept in.
“You know, we’ve suddenly started renovations… And the flat might be too crowded with the little one. My husband needs his quiet—he’s elderly, unused to children’s noise. Perhaps a hotel would be better? I can recommend a nice one nearby.”
I stayed silent. Then asked:
“Are you serious?”
“Well… you know how things are with us. He gets nervous. I don’t want arguments. It’s just easier for everyone.”
Fury blazed in my mind. After everything. After missing the wedding. After years of silence. After my attempt to reconcile—she suggested a hotel because her husband needed peace? My daughter wasn’t even loud—she was well-mannered. But even if she weren’t—this was her granddaughter! I hung up and told my husband, “We’re not going.”
My mother was hurt. Called me ungrateful, accused me of not understanding her position. But there was no point in that trip. I wouldn’t travel just to stay in a hotel next to my own mother, who had made it clear: a stranger mattered more than her own blood.
Years pass. She’s still with that man—or perhaps another. I don’t keep track. Our calls grow sparse. My daughter’s grandmother is my husband’s mother—the one who bakes pies, reads stories, and would never turn her away. My own mother remains in her world, where a man always comes first, and family is an afterthought.
If she’s happy with that silence—let her live in it. But she shouldn’t wonder why her granddaughter doesn’t invite her to school plays or send cards on Mother’s Day. Silence is a choice. And choices have consequences.
