“Don’t call me Mum—it makes me feel old!” How a woman abandoned her daughter and future grandchild for the illusion of youth
She’s been on edge for a month now—hurt, furious, and utterly alone. She withdrew into herself after her latest lover walked out, though she’d been so sure this time would be different. This time, she’d found “happiness.”
I’m 26, and her name is Eleanor. She’s 44. Biologically, she’s my mother. In reality, we’re strangers. She married my father at nineteen, and I arrived a year later—an unwanted child, as she never tired of reminding me. They divorced soon after I was born, and from then on, she only ever referred to him as a “waste of space” and a “failure.”
The irony? That “failure” has been happily married to his second wife for over twenty years. He owns a successful business, a sprawling country house just outside London, two flats, and even a holiday home in Cornwall. He’s the one who gifted my husband and me our flat as a wedding present, where we now live.
I was raised by my grandmother—my father’s mother. Later, he took me into his new family, and I never felt like an outsider. My stepmother is wonderful; she’s been a real mum to me. But Eleanor? I’ve called her by her first name since I was a child. And for good reason.
I was nine when she took me to Brighton for what she called “a proper mother-daughter holiday.” I asked, “Mum, can we go to the beach?” What followed was a scream loud enough for half the hotel to hear:
“Never call me Mum! It makes me sound ancient! Use my name, understood?”
Understood. And after that, I never went anywhere with her again. Her world revolved around men, salons, and parties, while I stayed with my grandmother—later, with my father and his new family. And thank God for that.
Eleanor’s had five husbands over the years, with countless affairs, wild nights, fake smiles, and thick layers of mascara in between. She worked at an upmarket salon in Chelsea, injecting every possible filler—Botox, lip plumpers, threads. Her face lost all expression, yet she clung to her mantra: “I’m still young, I’ve still got it!”
Her latest “prince” was two years younger than me. A bloke named Jake—lanky, tattooed, working as a bartender in some dingy pub.
“Darling, meet Jake. We’re getting married. This is the real deal,” she gushed, beaming like a schoolgirl at prom.
I froze. Then, softly, I said:
“Eleanor… I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a grandmother.”
Jake fumbled with champagne, shouting “Cheers!” while my mother turned pale. She stood in silence, grabbed her handbag, and stormed out without another word.
A week passed before she reappeared—tear-streaked, her face twisted with rage.
“This is your fault! He left me because of you! That ‘grandmother’ rubbish ruined everything! I’m not old—I’m only 37! I want to live, and you’re dragging me to the grave with your children!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. The woman who gave birth to me called my pregnancy a betrayal. Then came the final blow, scorching away the last shred of connection:
“I never had a daughter. And I won’t have grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Forget I exist.”
And she walked out.
We went to my real family—my grandparents. They embraced me, cried happy tears, and chattered about baby names, who’d babysit, who’d knit tiny booties. They’re my rock, my home, my real life.
And Eleanor? Let her chase eternal youth. One day, she’ll wake to silence—in an empty flat, in a body that’s no longer hers, staring into a mirror that stopped reflecting anything long ago. Maybe then she’ll realise what she’s truly lost.
