I’m sorry, Mum, but the further we are from you, the better it is for us! We’re leaving. Goodbye.
It wasn’t even a conversation. It was a monologue – my final one, like a verdict. And you know, I wasn’t waiting for her response. I simply didn’t give her a chance to say a word. Because I knew that if I did, it would all begin again. Accusations, dramas, manipulations. That’s how she is, my mother – a woman used to controlling, ordering, breaking.
“She’s draining you of all your money!” she shouted when she found out my wife and I were moving out.
Really, Mum? You’re saying that? You, who lived off Dad your whole life? You used to wait for his paycheck like it was a holiday. Forever dissatisfied, constantly criticizing him. But my wife is nothing like you. We earn together, support our family together, pay our bills together, and go on holidays together. Everything with us is equal. It’s a partnership, not submission. We’re a team. But you were used to submission. You were used to a man being silent and enduring.
“She’s not worthy of you!” came her voice again.
No, Mum. She is worthy of me. Because she loves me not for money, not for looks, not for status. She loves the real me. With all my quirks, habits, and emotional scars. And I love her. Not for anything. Just because. I don’t need “that perfect” girl – your friend’s daughter you kept trying to match me with. The one who’s got her third child by a third man. Don’t judge, Mum, if you don’t know the truth. And don’t interfere.
“Those aren’t your children! You’re wasting time on someone else’s!”
Mum, I’ll decide who’s family to me. These children are part of my life. I love them. Even if they weren’t my wife’s, I’d still stay. Because being a father isn’t about blood. It’s about choice. And I chose to be there. To be supportive. To be a dad. But you haven’t attended a single one of their birthdays. You’ve never given them a toy or even a smile.
“She can’t even cook a roast dinner!”
And thank goodness! I hated them as a kid. But you forced me to eat them. Every last bit. Do you remember threatening with the belt if I didn’t finish? My wife doesn’t cook roast dinners, and I’m happy. I’m free. I eat what I love. I live the way I want.
“She doesn’t even darn your socks!”
Exactly. She doesn’t. Because I don’t need darned socks. I’m not Dad, who had to wear old stuff because you prioritized buying yourself a new dress. I can buy everything I need. I have everything. And my wife isn’t a maid. She’s a person. An individual. A partner.
“You do the house chores! What kind of woman allows that?!”
A normal one, Mum. A modern, working woman who respects herself and me. I’m not helpless. I can do the dishes, make my own meal, tidy up my room. It doesn’t make me weak. It makes us equals. We have respect, not dictatorship.
“That’s not your son!”
He is my son! And if you don’t trust it – go ahead and do a test. I’d love to see your face when you see the result. But, you know, it’s not about DNA. He’s mine because I’m there for him. Because I love him. And you’ve never shown up for him. Not for a school play, not for a birthday. Not even a card.
“She’ll leave you! Find someone else!”
Maybe she will. And if that happens, it’ll be fair. Because you’re doing everything for her to walk away. You insult her. You watch her at work. You offer her money to leave me. You spread lies about her. Do you think I don’t know? You think she doesn’t tell me?
So, Mum, we’re leaving. To another city. We’ve found a nursery, a school there. We’ve got jobs. It’s all thought out, everything’s ready. Where exactly – I won’t say. I’m sorry, but the further we are from you, the easier it will be for us. The better our chances for happiness. We want to live, not just survive under your shadow.
Goodbye, Mum. Don’t look for us.
