I spent my whole life trying to be the perfect mother. I baked pies for school events, helped with homework, drove her to dance classes, and stayed up all night by her side when she had a fever. Then, I helped raise her children when she went on maternity leave. I loved—and still love—my daughter, but only recently did I realize: love isn’t about self-sacrifice to the last drop.
When she turned 32, she got divorced and moved back in with me, bringing her two children. “Mom, it won’t be for long,” she said. But it’s been almost four years now.
She started building her personal life again, going on dates, bringing men home. Meanwhile, I was picking up my grandchildren from daycare, cooking, cleaning, and listening to their cries at night. I didn’t complain. Not for a while.
Recently, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I slept through the night, read a book, or simply had some quiet time to myself. I’m only 54—I’m not old. I want to go for walks, meet friends, and take care of myself too.
When she told me her new boyfriend was moving in, I sat her down and, for the first time in my life, said:
— No. I can’t do this anymore. This is my home, and I want to live here in peace.
She got upset, slammed the door, packed the kids, and went to a friend’s house. And I… I opened the window, breathed in the air, and for the first time in a long time, I felt—I’m breathing.
Now, people tell me I’m a cruel mother. But I’m just tired of being furniture in someone else’s life. I want to be the owner of my own.
Do you think I overdid it?