**Diary Entry**
My mother never hesitates to send me furious messages filled with rage. I’ve blocked so many numbers, yet she always finds another one to write from. The words change, but the curses and venom remain. She wishes terrible things upon me—death, sickness, suffering. How could a mother say such things to her own daughter? She doesn’t see it as wrong. For ten years now, my brother Oliver has been her only concern, while I exist solely to clean and care for him.
Oliver and I have different fathers. Mum remarried when I was twelve. I don’t remember my dad, but she never spoke kindly of him. As a child, I grew up believing he was a terrible man because she would drag his name through the mud without reason. Now, here I am, facing the same cruelty.
My stepfather was decent enough—we never argued, treated each other with respect, but kept our distance. I never saw him as a father, though he never refused when I asked for help, like with my homework.
When I was thirteen, Mum had Oliver. It quickly became clear something was wrong. At first, there was hope, but soon, the doctors confirmed it—first a developmental delay, then a final, irreversible diagnosis. My stepfather took it hard. The stress overwhelmed him, and one day, he had a heart attack. After a week in intensive care, he was gone. That’s when my life became unbearable.
I understand Mum’s struggle. Raising a child who screamed, lashed out, or couldn’t control himself was exhausting. But when social services suggested a care home, she refused, calling it her “cross to bear.”
She couldn’t manage alone, so half the burden fell on me. After school, while she worked odd jobs, I looked after Oliver. It was disgusting at times—kids like him don’t always have control. I never had a normal teenage life. School, then caring for Oliver, then homework while he shrieked in the background.
Three times, she was offered help—three times, she turned it down, insisting she could cope. But *I* couldn’t. The day I finished sixth form, I packed my things and left after she told me I wouldn’t be going to uni because Oliver needed me.
I stayed with a friend, found work, then rented a room. Uni was out of the question—I couldn’t afford it, full-time or otherwise.
Nearly ten years have passed since I last lived at home or spoke to Mum. When life finally improved and I had a bit of extra money, I tried reaching out, offering financial help. Instead, I was met with pure hatred. She screamed that I’d betrayed her, abandoned her with a sick child, and now dared to pretend I cared. She demanded I come back. Just the thought made me sick.
I told her I’d help with money—nothing more. The insults started again, and we never spoke after that. Now, she still sends hateful messages from random numbers. I’ve stopped hoping we’ll ever reconcile.
After everything she’s said, I want nothing to do with her. We’ve both made our choices. But no matter how much I tell myself that, every message still cuts deep.
