I’m sorry, Mum, but the further away we are from you, the better it will be for us. We’re leaving. Goodbye.
This wasn’t even a conversation. It was a monologue—my final say, like a verdict. And truth be told, I didn’t expect her to respond. I simply didn’t give her a chance to speak. Because I knew: if I did, it would start again. Accusations, hysterics, manipulations. That’s just my mother—someone who’s used to controlling, ordering, and breaking.
“She’s taking all your money!” she shouted when she found out my wife and I were moving out.
Are you serious, Mum? Is that really you talking? You, who spent your whole life living off Dad? You waited for his payday like it was a holiday. Always dissatisfied, always reproaching him. But my wife is nothing like you. We earn together, look after our family together, pay the bills together, and holiday together. Everything is equal between us. It’s a partnership, not submission. We are a team. But you got used to submission. Used to having a man who kept quiet and endured.
“She’s not good enough for you!” her voice rang out again.
No, Mum. She is good enough for 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 back. Not for anything specific. Just because. I don’t need “that girl”—the daughter of your friend you tried to set me up with relentlessly. The one who’s already on her third child with her third man. Don’t judge, Mum, if you don’t know the truth. And don’t interfere.
“They’re not your children! You’re wasting your time with someone else’s kids!”
Mum, I decide who feels like family to me. These children are part of my life. I love them. And 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’ve chosen to be here. To be their support. To be Dad. You never came to any of their birthdays. Not once did you gift them a toy or a smile.
“She can’t even make a proper dinner!”
Thank goodness! I’ve hated the dinners you forced on me since childhood. Eating them until the last bite under threat. My wife doesn’t make those dinners—and I’m happy. I’m free. I eat what I like and live how I want.
“She doesn’t even mend your socks!”
That’s right. She doesn’t. Because I don’t need mended socks. I’m not Dad, who wore old clothes so you could buy a new dress. I can buy my things myself. I have everything I need. And my wife is not a housekeeper for me. She is a person, an individual, a partner.
“You do your own house chores! What kind of decent woman allows that?”
A decent one, Mum. Modern, working, respecting herself and me. I’m not incapable. I can wash dishes, make my lunch, tidy up. That 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 believe it—take a test. I’d love to see your face when you get the result. But you know, it’s not about DNA. He’s mine because I’m here. Because I love him. And you never came to see him. Not for a single event or birthday. Not even a card.
“She’ll leave you! Find someone else!”
Perhaps. And if she does, it will be honest. Because you’re pushing her to leave. You humiliate her. Stalk her at work. Offer her money to leave me. Spread lies about her. You think I don’t know? You think she hasn’t told me?
So, Mum, we’re moving. To a different town. We found a nursery, a school. Found jobs. Everything’s planned, everything’s ready. I won’t say where. I’m sorry, but the further from you, the easier it is for us. The more chances we have for happiness. We want to live, not just survive under your oppression.
Goodbye, Mum. Don’t try to find us.
