My mum gets upset that I can’t spend all my time with her. I have two kids, and I just don’t have time to breathe.
It’s as if she doesn’t understand that I’ve built my own life now. Every time she calls, she’s in tears—accusing, guilt-tripping, manipulating—if I don’t visit or answer her call within half an hour. I’m twenty-nine. I’ve been married for five years. My husband and I have two little ones. And as you can imagine, free time is practically nonexistent.
Our youngest isn’t even in nursery yet—every time we try, she catches a cold within days, running a temperature, sniffles, bronchitis… and then we’re stuck at home for weeks. So my husband and I decided it’s best if I stay with her until she’s stronger. Yes, it’s exhausting, but we’d rather this than endless trips to the GP.
In this situation, you forget about yourself completely. Every day is the same: cooking, cleaning, feeding, playing, soothing, and bedtime. And on top of that, you have to be warm, patient, cheerful—so the kids grow up feeling loved. But Mum? It’s like she deliberately ignores it all. She genuinely thinks I just lounge on the sofa, binge-watching telly and scrolling through my phone.
Every call from her is full of jabs: *Why didn’t you come over? I’m so lonely! You could at least do my shopping!* And she lives all the way across London—getting there with two kids is a nightmare. Traffic, changing buses, exhaustion, tantrums—but who cares about that?
I barely keep up with our own flat. There’s always toys, books, cushions strewn everywhere. The second I tidy, it’s chaos again. And after that, I’m supposed to go to hers and clean there too? I just don’t have the energy. But she won’t hear it. To her, I’m not a person—just some sort of on-call helper who should always be available.
Sometimes I wonder—does she even care how I feel? That my back aches, that I fall asleep standing up, that we barely have time to eat properly? All she cares about is her own loneliness. But why doesn’t she think—maybe she could come here and help? Play with her grandkids, make some soup? Like normal grandmothers do.
After I gave birth, she did visit—with demands. I could barely stand, my stitches still hurt, and there she was, camped on the sofa waiting for me to serve her. Then she complained the soup was too greasy and the meal wasn’t fancy enough. I wanted the ground to swallow me. I’d just had a baby! I hadn’t slept in days! And she acted like she was at some posh friend’s house with a cook and maid.
It’s only gotten worse since. Complaints, guilt-trips, silent treatments. Never once has she asked how *I* am. Never offered help. She thinks the kids are solely my responsibility. But *she’s* hands-off. Yet she still expects me to come over, clean, cook, entertain.
A few weeks ago, we had a huge row. She screamed that I was ungrateful, that she raised me, and now I’m selfish. I stayed quiet. For the first time, I didn’t apologise. We haven’t spoken since—no calls, no texts. Just silence. And you know what?
I finally feel relief. Real, deep relief. For the first time in years, I realise how peaceful life is without her calls, without the guilt, without the *you owe me*. I sleep better. I breathe easier.
Sometimes I think—what’s the point of a mother like this? Why do I always feel guilty when *she’s* the one who 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 cycle. Let her live as she pleases. But she doesn’t get to pull me in anymore.
