My mum takes offence that I can’t spend every minute with her. She doesn’t seem to grasp that my own life has begun. She rings me in tears every time, accusing, sulking, manipulating—if I don’t visit or call back within half an hour. I’m twenty-nine. Married five years. Two young children. Free time? There isn’t any.
The youngest isn’t even in nursery—the moment we send her, she catches a cold within days. Fever, sniffles, bronchitis. Then it’s weeks at home. So my husband and I decided: I’ll stay with her till she’s stronger. Hard? Yes. But we chose care over racing to clinics.
In this whirlwind, you forget yourself completely. Every day’s the same: cooking, feeding, cleaning, playing, soothing, bedtime. All while staying gentle, patient, cheerful—so the kids feel loved. Mum? She shuts her eyes to it. Truly thinks I lounge on the sofa watching telly and scrolling my phone.
Every call comes with barbs: *Why didn’t you visit? I’m lonely! You could at least buy my shopping!* Never mind that she lives across London, and getting there with two little ones is a mission. Traffic, tube changes, exhaustion, tantrums—who cares?
I barely keep my own flat tidy. Toys, books, cushions—always strewn about. Clean up, and it’s chaos again. Then she expects me to travel over and scrub her place too? I’m drained. But she won’t hear it. To her, I’m not a person—just staff, obliged to be on call.
Does she even wonder how I feel? That my back aches, that I nod off standing up, that we barely eat a proper meal? No. Only her loneliness matters. Why doesn’t she visit *us*? Help? Play with the grandkids, make soup? Like proper grandmothers do.
After the birth, she came—with complaints. I could barely stand, stitches still raw, and she planted herself on the sofa waiting to be served. Then moaned the soup was greasy, the meal not “special” enough. I wanted to vanish. I’d just given *birth*! No sleep for days! Yet she acted like a guest at some posh luncheon.
It only got worse. Nagging, guilt-trips, sulks. Never once asking how *I* was. Never offering help. The kids? My job alone. But *she’s* hands-off. Yet demands I come, clean, cook, entertain.
Weeks back, we rowed badly. She screamed I was ungrateful—she raised me, and now I’m selfish. I stayed silent. Didn’t justify myself. First time ever. Since then—nothing. No calls, no texts. Quiet. And d’you know?
I feel lighter. Properly. Deeply. For the first time in years, I’ve known peace without her calls, her grudges, her *you owe me*. I sleep better. Breathe easier.
Sometimes I wonder—why keep a mother like this? Why feel guilty when *she* stopped being a mum long ago? In her world, there’s only her. Her wants, her moods. My exhaustion, my kids, my life? Just background noise.
I won’t go back to that loop. Let her live as she likes. But me? I’m done.