I’m thirty, and yet I’m still not living my own life—my mother decides everything for me, and I can’t break free.
Thirty years old. An age when others have children, mortgages, and independence, while I have none of it—no freedom, no privacy, no voice of my own. Because my mother is always there. A mother who won’t let go. A mother who controls my every move. And I let her. I know it’s my fault. I never learned to say no.
My father vanished long before I was born. Mum never spoke of him—just silence, as if he never existed. From childhood, I was always ill—bronchitis, measles, whooping cough, chickenpox. I never went to nursery; Mum cared for me at home. We lived with my grandparents, who provided for us. Mum was a trained piano teacher, but she only started working when I turned fifteen.
I was her whole world. She lived through me, breathed for me, shielded me from everything. If I fell, I wasn’t allowed outside. If I caught a cold, no ice cream. Every little thing was a threat. One wrong move—panic. And I got used to it.
I graduated from music school, studied at a teaching college, became a piano teacher—just like Mum. As a child, I had almost no friends. Mum forbade me from associating with anyone—she deemed them “the wrong sort.” Instead, we went to the theatre, concerts, read books together. I lived like a heroine from a Victorian novel, minus the balls and suitors.
University changed little. Granddad helped me land a job at a music school. I enjoyed the work, loved the children, and Mum was pleased—surrounded by respectable women, no “bad influences.” I had almost no girlfriends. Two I tried to befriend vanished—we couldn’t meet, Mum didn’t approve.
Five years ago, *he* came along—the new guitar teacher. Kind. Clever. Handsome. A proper romantic hero. We went on a date. I was happy—until it crumbled.
The first evening—Mum rang every ten minutes, spiralled into hysterics, scared him off. The second—I turned my phone off. When I got home, an ambulance was outside. She’d called hospitals, the police, my colleagues. She was taken away in crisis. There was no third date. For the first time, I felt real anger. I fled to a friend’s. She begged me, *Don’t go back. If you do, you’ll never break free.*
I stopped answering Mum’s calls—texted that I was fine. She showed up at my work, made scenes, ended up in hospital again. I couldn’t bear it—I returned. The guilt settled in me like a splinter, never leaving. My friend pleaded with me to stay. I didn’t. And from that moment, everything froze.
Now I’m thirty. Mum and I go to the theatre, take spa retreats, have Sunday lunches—just us. No relationships. No friends. No freedom. Every attempt to escape sends me into panic. I’m terrified. Terrified Mum won’t survive if I leave. That if I dare—the worst will happen. And I’d never forgive myself. I’d be the reason she dies.
I want to live my own life. But I can’t. I don’t know how to be cruel. Don’t know how to choose myself. I fear I’ll end up like her—lonely, trapped, broken. More and more, I think there’s simply no way out.
