I still can’t figure out the exact moment everything went wrong. How the woman who’d been my rock, my friend, my guide—could just throw it all away and betray me. All for a man. A man who isn’t even a shadow of the woman she used to be.
Mum had me late, at 30. She always said I was her purpose, her anchor, her “child just for herself.” I never knew my dad—just a blank line on my birth certificate, and not once did she ever mention who he might’ve been. We lived simply but warmly. No fancy things, just love. She was an accountant, and in the evenings, we’d bake biscuits, binge telly, talk about everything. I was sure—we were unbreakable. She never dated, never brought anyone home. It was just us. Until I turned 15—then, pure bliss.
Then *he* showed up. *Gavin.* A coworker from another department. She came home one night with this glow—I *knew* someone new was in her life. Soon, there were dates, whispered phone calls, new dresses. I was happy for her—really. But there was this unease in my gut. And I was right.
One day, she just dropped it on me: “We’re moving in with Gavin. He’s got a two-bed—you’ll have your own space.” I tried to argue—not out of jealousy, but because I *felt* it. Something was off. He barely spoke to me, looked right through me like I was furniture. But Mum wouldn’t listen. “You don’t understand, I’m happy,” was all she’d say. So I caved.
At first, it was quiet. We lived like strangers. Him in his world, me in mine, Mum stuck in the middle. Then they got married. A week before my A-levels. And everything shattered. He changed—not that he was ever kind, but now? A full-blown tyrant. Belittling us, barking orders, making stupid demands.
“Two women in this house and not a decent meal?” he’d snap. “She’s at school—where’ve *you* been? Dolled up in heels, off chasing men?”
He’d scream, forbid her from leaving, dig through her texts, chuck her phone. She’d sob, he’d show up with flowers. Rinse and repeat. I begged her: “Let’s leave. I’m with you. You’re not alone.” But she’d just wipe her tears. “You don’t understand. You’re still a child. I *love* him.”
Love. So much that he eventually forbade her from paying for uni. She’d been renting out our old flat, saving up. I’d dreamed of studying law—studied my arse off. When I didn’t get a full ride, I’d hoped she’d help.
But Gavin said:
“A woman belongs in the kitchen. You want me to pay for her degree? Marry rich—then study all you like.”
I lost it. Told him exactly what I thought. Packed my things and left. Mum? Didn’t even try to stop me. Called me ungrateful. Said I should *apologise* to him.
I didn’t. We haven’t spoken since. Not a word. Not a minute. She’s disappeared into him—talks like him, moves like him, even *jokes* like him—crude, nasty. When she calls (*if* she does), her voice is ice. Detached. Like I’m not her daughter—just some girl she used to know.
I’ve stopped fighting. That mum—the one who loved me, baked flapjacks, tucked me in—she’s gone. She died the day she chose a man over her child. Losing her left a scar. But I won’t let that pain burn the good left in me.
Let her live her life. But when she’s alone—let her remember who she betrayed for a stranger.
