My name is Emma, I’m 17 years old, and I come from London. I’ve kept this to myself for a long time, but I’ve decided to share my story now. Perhaps someone will see themselves in it, or maybe it will prompt someone to reflect on their behavior. Hopefully, at least one mother will think twice before betraying her own daughter, as mine did.
My parents divorced when I was ten. To be honest, our family wasn’t happy even before that; their arguments, accusations, and the coldness between them were evident even when I didn’t fully grasp the situation. But after the divorce, things only got worse. It was like my parents were competing for my attention, but not out of love—more from a sense of obligation. They shuttled me between their homes, like a piece of luggage without a handle. Living at Dad’s was cramped but at least peaceful. With Mum, the space was bigger, but the tension in the air made it hard to breathe with each passing year.
Everything fell apart when Mum met a new man. His name was Chris. He was around thirty, nearly a decade younger than Mum, and immediately started acting like he was the boss of the house, while I was just in the way. At first, he politely smiled and pretended to care about me. But his true colors showed quickly. He disliked that I lived with Mum and that she spent money on me. He didn’t mind voicing that my dad was irresponsible, that I was a burden, and that I should have “grown up and managed on my own” by now.
He manipulated Mum, squeezed money out of her, convincing her that she didn’t need a teenage daughter, but rather freedom and self-care. And Mum… listened to him. She didn’t notice how I cried at night, how I quietly gathered my books in the kitchen to avoid them, or how I locked myself in the bathroom for an hour just to sit in silence.
The last straw was the night I overheard them arguing again. The yelling was so intense that it made the glass in the window tremble. I rushed out of my room to stand between them, to protect Mum—I was scared he’d hit her. But things turned out differently. He glared at me with such anger that my heart sank. I shouted, “Stop! Don’t yell at her!”—and then he hit me. A real, adult, hard hit. He struck my face so hard I fell, hitting my head on the corner of the cabinet. Everything went blurry. I only remember Mum screaming and then… silence.
I thought he would leave after that. That Mum would throw him out, hold me close, call a doctor, and tell me she loved me. I waited for it. I looked into her eyes, seeking rescue. But she just whispered, “You ruined everything yourself.” And an hour later, she said I needed to move in with Dad.
I silently packed my things. It felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just left, realizing I no longer had a home.
Now I live with Dad. He does his best, but we don’t have that closeness that I longed for with Mum throughout my childhood. I no longer expect her to call, to apologize, or to visit… Though inside, I’m still that little girl, waiting for Mum to open the door and say, “Forgive me, my darling.” But that’s not going to happen. She chose a man. She chose the one who hit her child.
I don’t wish her any harm. But I know that one day he’ll leave her. He’ll find someone younger, prettier, more agreeable. He’ll leave her on her own. And maybe then she’ll think of me. But by then, I won’t be the one who forgives everything. Because a mother’s betrayal is a wound that never heals.
I say this to all parents: do not have children if you’re not prepared to be there for them, if you can’t put them above your romantic dramas. We, children, are not responsible for who you love. We didn’t ask to be brought into this world. But if you chose to bring us here, do not betray us.
Mum, if you ever read this… know that I survived. I got back on my feet. I am strong. But I will never again come to you in tears, like before. You are no longer my mum. You’re just a woman who once gave birth to me.
