My daughter called me a “toxic mother” on social media. Now I’m ashamed to even leave the house…
I was always a strict woman, but fair. I worked as a teacher in a rural school for thirty years, shaping entire generations. In our small village in Castilla, everyone knew me and respected me. Or at least they used to… until everything turned upside down.
My daughter’s name is Nuria. She’s thirty-two. We haven’t spoken in a long time. Or rather, I tried to stay in touch, but she drifted away. I didn’t understand why… until someone told me she was writing a blog about having a “toxic childhood” and a “horrible mother.”
You can’t imagine how I felt reading her words: “They controlled me, forbade everything. I grew up afraid and constantly criticized. My mother is a skirt-wearing tyrant. She never loved me.” Then came the comments from strangers calling me a monster, blaming me for ruining her mental health, for destroying her life.
But that’s not true. Yes, I was demanding — out of love. I never raised a hand to her, never humiliated her. When she was eleven, I didn’t let her sleep over at a friend’s house — out of fear. I never let her skip school and I enforced discipline. Is that a crime?
Because of that, Nuria graduated high school with excellent grades, got a scholarship to attend the Complutense University of Madrid, and later worked for a multinational company. I only wanted her to be strong, smart, and independent. I never interfered in her love life, never pushed her to get married. I just wanted her to be happy.
Now, everything I did is being labeled as abuse. In town, people whisper: “You, a teacher, raised your daughter like that?” I lower my gaze when I go to buy bread. I avoid eye contact. I don’t know what I did to deserve this punishment.
When did Nuria decide I was her enemy? When did my care become “toxicity”? I raised my daughter alone. Her father died when she was ten. I worked day and night — at school, at home, helping with homework. I cared for her when she was sick. I made sure she was always clean, well-fed, and safe.
And now… I’m treated like a monster.
I called her. I tried to talk. I begged her to delete those posts, to stop spreading lies. To not humiliate me in front of everyone. But all I got was silence… or new blog entries about a “loveless childhood.”
Until… she was the one who called. Crying. Through sobs, I understood: her husband, a businessman, had left her. Left her with three kids, no home, no money. He ran off with a woman in her twenties. “I’m tired of being a father,” he told her.
—Mom, please forgive me… I have nowhere to go… You’re all I have left…
I held the phone tightly. My voice trembled. I remembered her words: “You’re not my mother, you’re my jailer. I hate everything about you.” And now… “please forgive me, take me in.”
I didn’t know what to say. Inside me, two women were at war: the mother who suffers for her daughter, and the woman who was trampled.
What should I do? Forgive her? Welcome her back as if nothing ever happened? I’m not cruel. I love my daughter. I love my grandchildren too. I would never leave them out on the street. But… can I simply ignore everything she said, as if it hadn’t deeply hurt me?
I don’t want revenge. But I can’t pretend it didn’t hurt. Should I ask for an apology? Should she tell the truth on the same blog, to the same people who judged me?
I’m not looking for fame. Just justice… or at least peace.
And you… would you forgive her? Or not?