At thirty-eight, I still fear my mother. And it eats away at me from within.
Every year, I look in the mirror more often, trying to remind myself who I am—a woman who has achieved much: a university degree, a senior role at a leading logistics firm in Manchester, a stable marriage, though without children of our own. My husband, Edward, is my anchor, a man I respect and love deeply, and his son from his first marriage, Oliver, has long felt like my own. By all appearances, it’s a life of comfort, family, security. One should be happy. Yet inside me lurks a fear—not some vague, childish dread, but something visceral, physical. Fear of my own mother.
I am thirty-eight. I manage a department, solve complex problems, negotiate with partners, hire and dismiss staff. But the moment she appears—my mother—everything crumbles. My knees weaken, my throat tightens, my palms turn icy. My mind floods with scenes from childhood: her yanking the blanket off me, dragging me by the hair because I hadn’t washed the dishes after supper. Hurling a slipper at me when I came home late from school. Mocking me in front of her latest suitors, comparing me to other girls. Her three marriages were a living hell. My father vanished without a trace, and I don’t even know if he’s still alive. With time, my mother only grew more bitter, more ruthless.
Edward sees it all. He doesn’t just suspect—he has witnessed it. He’s seen me freeze when I hear her voice on the phone. How I stumble over my words when she turns up unannounced. He’s suggested therapy, told me I need to unload this burden. But I… I can’t. A grown woman, a department head—I cannot bear to seem weak. Seeking help would mean admitting I’m failing. And I’ve spent my whole life pretending to be unbreakable. Yet one call from her reduces this “steely” woman to a trembling little girl.
At first, her visits were “just for a day or two.” Then those days stretched into a week. She’d arrive with bags, rifle through our wardrobes, snoop in drawers—once even opened my laptop. Over dinner, she once asked Edward, cool as you please, “How many mistresses have you had, married to such a frigid, miserable woman?” I couldn’t utter a single word. Just stared at my napkin until Edward, furious, showed her the door.
But she stayed. Two more days. With a single phrase: “I’m your mother. You are my daughter.” That was it. Those words erased all boundaries, all guilt, all unwelcome intrusions.
And I don’t know how to refuse her. That’s my greatest tragedy. The moment I hear her voice, my tongue turns to lead. I can’t say no. I always whisper, “Alright, come…” even when everything inside me screams, “Don’t! I don’t want you here!” I lie to myself, to Edward, to everyone. And I hate myself for it.
A week ago, she called and announced, matter-of-factly, “I’ve bought the tickets. I’ll be with you from the 30th of December to the 10th of January.” Never mind that Edward, Oliver, and I had already planned a New Year’s escape—a quiet trip to York, just the three of us. I’d even planned the meals. But my mother decided, and that was that. And, of course, once again, I couldn’t bring myself to say, “Don’t come.”
This time, though, Edward and I have made a different plan. We’ll leave. Book a hotel. Turn off our phones. Run away. Let her arrive, kiss the doorstep, and do as she pleases. It’s not revenge. It’s survival. Because I can’t endure another New Year with her.
Sometimes, it frightens me to admit, even to myself—but I do not love my mother. I am afraid of her. And I don’t understand why she hates me enough to keep poisoning my life, even now. All I want is to live. Without tears, without fear, without this constant dread of pain, humiliation, mockery.
I don’t know if fleeing my own home is a grown-up decision. But right now, it’s the only thing that might save me. Even just a little. Even just for a while. From a mother I still, at thirty-eight, cannot defend myself against.
