My name is Victoria, I’m 17 years old, and I’m from London. I’ve kept this story inside for a long time, but now I’m ready to share it. Perhaps someone will see themselves in my story. Maybe it will make someone rethink their actions. Or perhaps it will make at least one mother think twice before choosing a man over her own daughter, as mine did.
My parents divorced when I was ten. I can’t say we were a happy family before that—there were arguments, accusations, and a coldness between them even when I didn’t fully understand. But after the divorce, things got worse. Mum and Dad competed over who needed me more—not out of love, but out of a sense of obligation. I felt like a suitcase without a handle, being shuffled from one flat to another. It was cramped with Dad, but at least it was peaceful. At Mum’s, there was more space, but every year it got harder to breathe because of the tension.
Everything fell apart when a new man entered Mum’s life. His name was Chris. He was around thirty, almost a decade younger than Mum, and he immediately acted like he was the one in charge, while I was just an inconvenience. At first, he smiled politely, pretending to care about how I was doing. But his true colors quickly showed. He disliked that I was living with Mum and hated it when she spent money on me. He didn’t hesitate to say that my dad was irresponsible, that I was a burden, and that it was high time I learned to “stand on my own two feet.”
He was manipulative and convinced Mum she didn’t need a teenage daughter—what she needed was freedom and to focus on herself. Mum listened to him. She no longer noticed my tears at night or how I’d quietly gather my books in the kitchen just to avoid being seen. I’d lock myself in the bathroom for an hour just to sit in silence.
The final straw came one night when I heard them fighting again. The shouting was so loud the windows shook. I ran out of my room to stand between them, fearing he might hit Mum. But things went differently. He looked at me with such rage it made my heart stop. I shouted, “Stop it! Don’t you dare yell at her!” and immediately got hit. It was a real, adult punch, strong enough to knock me down. I hit my head against the corner of the cupboard, and everything went blurry. I only remember Mum screaming and then silence.
I thought he’d leave after that. I expected Mum to throw him out, hug me, call for a doctor, and say how much she loved me. I waited for it. I looked into her eyes, searching for comfort. But she only whispered, “You’ve ruined everything.” An hour later, she said I needed to move in with Dad.
I packed my things silently. It felt like my heart had been ripped out. I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. I just left, realizing I no longer had a home.
Now I live with Dad. He tries his best, but there’s no closeness, no bond that I spent my childhood seeking with Mum. I no longer hope she’ll call to apologize or visit. Yet, deep inside, a little girl still hopes she’ll open the door and say, “Sorry, my darling.” But that won’t happen. She chose him. She picked the man who hit her child.
I don’t wish her ill. But I know one day he’ll leave. He’ll find someone younger, prettier, more compliant. He’ll leave her alone. And maybe then she’ll remember me. But by then, I won’t be the forgiving daughter. Because betrayal by a mother is a wound that never heals.
I say this to all parents: don’t have children if you’re not ready to stand by them, if you can’t put them above your romantic dramas. We children aren’t responsible for whom you love. We didn’t ask to be born. But since you’ve chosen to bring us into this world—don’t betray us.
Mum, if you ever read this… know that I survived. I got back on my feet. I’m strong now. But I’ll never come to you with tears again, like I used to. You’re not my mum anymore. You’re just a woman who once gave birth to me.
