**Diary Entry**
My mum never holds back—her angry messages flood my phone. I’ve blocked so many numbers, but she always finds another. The words change, but the venom stays the same. Curses, wishes for illness, even death. How can a mother say such things to her own daughter? She doesn’t see anything wrong with it. For the past ten years, only my brother Alfie has mattered to her. I exist to clean and care for him.
We had different fathers. Mum remarried when I was twelve. I barely remember my real dad, but she never had a kind word about him. Growing up, I assumed he was a monster, the way she spoke of him. Now history repeats itself.
My stepdad was decent—no arguments, just quiet respect. I never called him “Dad,” but he’d help if I asked, like with homework. Then, at thirteen, Alfie was born. Soon, it was clear something was wrong. Doctors first said learning difficulties, then worse—a condition with no cure. My stepdad took it hard. A heart attack took him a week later. After that, life turned hellish.
I get why Mum struggled. Alfie screamed, hurt himself, lashed out. When social services suggested a care home, she refused. “It’s my cross to bear,” she said. But she couldn’t manage alone, so half the burden fell on me. School, then babysitting Alfie while she worked odd jobs. No normal teenage years—just homework drowned out by his fits.
They offered respite care three times. Each time, Mum claimed she could cope. But *I* couldn’t. After A-levels, I packed my things and left when she forbade university—said my duty was to Alfie.
I crashed with a mate, found a job, rented a room. No chance of uni—too expensive. For nearly a decade, I’ve stayed away. When life improved, I reached out, offered money. Her response? Fury. Screaming about betrayal, how I abandoned her. Demands to come home. The memories made me sick.
I told her I’d help financially—nothing more. The insults came, and I cut contact. Still, her messages find me. New numbers, same rage. I’ve stopped hoping for reconciliation.
She made her choice; I made mine. Yet every message leaves me gutted. *Lesson learned*: some wounds don’t heal. Walk away before they drown you.
