She is my mother… yet how it stings to hear only scorn from her.
I am forty-one. By all outward measures, I am a grown woman—married, children, a career, a home. Yet inside, I am still that little girl gazing into her mother’s eyes, waiting for a scrap of warmth, a word of kindness, the faintest hint of pride. Just once. Just a syllable. But no… Even now, the wound smoulders—the ache of a mother’s withheld love.
We were three sisters. I, the eldest, believed I ought to be her pride, her pillar, her “clever little girl.” Firstborn—aware, dutiful. But Mother never saw it that way. She made no secret of it. The middle sister was “troubled”—rude, skipping school, shouting matches, yet forgiven—”that’s just her character.” And the youngest… oh, the youngest was her darling. Quiet, docile, neat. Mother used to say she’d lie awake at night, creeping in to check if the youngest still breathed, so fragile she seemed. And me? I might as well not exist.
I don’t blame my sisters. Their lives are theirs; they’ve done nothing wrong. But the bitterness gnaws—not at them, at *her*. At Mother. My whole life, I’ve scrambled for her approval. Top marks at school, retaking tests for even a B+. Never a complaint from teachers—the perfect little miss. No tantrums, no demands. I only ever wanted her to be proud.
Yet every visit, the same refrain. *”You’ve let yourself go.” “Honestly, you’ve no common sense.” “Where did I go wrong with you?”* I’d brush it off. *”That’s just how she speaks.” “She’s tired.” “She doesn’t know any better.”* But decades of effort—sleepless nights with babies, grinding work, holding the family together—and still: *”Your house is a sty.” “Can’t even roast a chicken.” “Your children are feral.”* It wears you down.
When my son was born, she shoved me back to work: *”You’ll turn dull sitting at home. Get out before you rot.”* Then, when I returned: *”Career woman now, too grand for your family. Useless at that, too.”*
Round and round. The comparisons. The youngest—*so pretty*. The middle—*landed a good bloke, doing alright*. And me? A blunder. Each time, I bite my tongue, blink back tears. Because if I speak, she’ll sigh, dismiss me: *”Ungrateful, aren’t you? Never satisfied.”*
Sometimes I want to scream: *”Mum, why don’t you love me? What did I do? Why am I never enough?”* But I can’t. I’m afraid. Afraid that if I spill all this hurt, she’ll turn away—vanish—and I won’t survive it. However much it aches, I can’t sever that last, frayed thread between us.
My husband says, *”You ought to tell her. Might wake her up.”* But he doesn’t understand. To him, it’s simple. To me, she isn’t just a person. She’s the root, the air. Without her, I’m a stump. Even if she cuts me, she’s my mother. And like a child, I still wait—wait for the day she might say:
*”You’re a good girl, love. I’m proud of you.”*
So I wait. As I’ve always waited.
