**Diary Entry**
At 38, I still fear my own mother. It eats away at me.
Each year, I stare into the mirror, trying to remind myself who I am—a woman who’s achieved so much: a degree, a senior position at a logistics firm in Manchester, a stable marriage, even if we don’t have children of our own. My husband, James, is my rock, and his son from his first marriage, Oliver, feels like my own. By all accounts, life should feel secure, warm. Yet inside me lurks a fear—not abstract, not fleeting, but visceral. Fear of my mother.
I’m thirty-eight. I lead a team, solve complex problems, negotiate contracts, hire and fire people. But the moment she appears, everything crumbles. My knees buckle, my throat tightens, my palms turn to ice, and my mind flashes back—memories of her yanking the duvet off me, dragging me by the hair because I hadn’t washed the dishes. Her slipper hurled at me when I came home late from school. The way she mocked me in front of her latest boyfriend, comparing me to other girls. Her three marriages were pure hell. My father vanished without a trace—I don’t even know if he’s alive. And Mum? She only grew harder with time.
James sees it. He doesn’t just suspect—he’s witnessed it. Watched me freeze at the sound of her voice on the phone. Heard me stammer when she turns up unannounced. He’s suggested therapy, told me I need to let this weight go. But I can’t. Me—an adult woman, a department head—terrified of seeming weak. Seeing a therapist would mean admitting defeat, and I’ve spent my whole life pretending to be unbreakable. Yet all it takes is one call from her to turn me back into that trembling girl.
At first, her visits were “just for a few days.” Then those days stretched into weeks. She’d arrive with bags, rifle through our cupboards, snoop in drawers, even once opened my laptop. Over dinner, she’d casually ask James, *“How many mistresses have you had, married to such a frigid, dull woman?”* I couldn’t speak. Just stared at my napkin while James, furious, threw her out.
But she stayed. Two more days. With just one phrase: *“I’m your mother. You’re my daughter.”* That was it. With those words, every boundary dissolved. Every guilt, every intrusion, vanished.
And I can’t refuse her. That’s my tragedy. The moment I hear her voice, my words fail. I can’t say no. I say, *“Fine, come over…”* even as everything inside screams, *Don’t!* I lie to myself, to James, to everyone. And I hate myself for it.
A week ago, she called. *“I’ve booked my train. I’ll be there from the 30th to the 10th.”* Never mind that James, Oliver, and I had planned a New Year’s trip to Edinburgh—hotel booked, meals researched. But Mum decided, and that was that. And again, I couldn’t say, *Don’t come.*
This time, though, James and I have a plan. We’ll leave. Book a hotel. Turn off our phones. Run. She can kiss the front door if she likes—let her do what she wants. It’s not revenge. It’s survival. Because I can’t endure another New Year with her.
Sometimes, I’m scared to admit it, even to myself, but I don’t love my mother. I fear her. And I don’t understand why she hates me enough to keep ruining my life, even now. All I want is to live—without tears, without fear, without waiting for the next cruel word.
I don’t know if fleeing my own home is “mature.” But right now, it’s the only thing that might save me. Even a little. Even just for a while. From the woman I still can’t face—not even at thirty-eight.
