My name is Emily, I’m 17, and I come from London. I’ve stayed quiet for a long time, keeping everything inside, but now I’ve decided to share my story. Maybe someone will see themselves in it. Maybe someone will rethink their actions. Or perhaps at least one mother will pause before betraying her own child, like mine did.
My parents divorced when I was ten. I won’t say we were a happy family before that—there were arguments, blame, a coldness between them that I could feel even when I didn’t fully understand. But after the split, it only got worse. Mum and Dad seemed to compete over who I needed more—not out of love, but obligation. I was tossed between flats like a suitcase with no handle. Dad’s place was cramped but peaceful. Mum’s was bigger, but with each year, the tension made it harder to breathe.
Everything fell apart completely when a new man entered Mum’s life. His name was Christian. He was around thirty, nearly a decade younger than Mum, and from the start, he acted like he owned the place—like I was just in the way. At first, he smiled politely, pretending to care how I was. But the mask slipped fast. He didn’t like me living with Mum. Didn’t like her spending money on me. He’d say outright that my dad was irresponsible, that I was a burden, and that it was time I “stood on my own two feet.”
He manipulated Mum, drained her bank account, convinced her she didn’t need a teenage daughter—she needed freedom and to focus on herself. And Mum… Mum listened. She stopped noticing when I cried at night. When I tiptoed to the kitchen to grab my books, just to stay out of their sight. When I locked myself in the bathroom for an hour, just for some silence.
The final straw was the night I heard them shouting again. The walls shook. I ran out to stand between them, to protect Mum—I was terrified he’d hit her. But it didn’t go how I thought. He looked at me with such rage it made my chest tighten. I shouted, “Stop it! Don’t yell at her!”—and then he struck me. A real, hard, grown man’s blow. He hit me so hard I fell, slamming into the edge of the wardrobe. Everything went blurry. I only remember Mum screaming… and then silence.
I thought he’d leave then. That she’d throw him out, pull me close, call a doctor, tell me she loved me. I waited for it. Searched her eyes—begging for rescue. But she just whispered, “You ruined everything.” And an hour later, she told me to move in with Dad.
I packed in silence. My heart felt ripped out. I didn’t sob. Didn’t scream. I just walked away, knowing I had no home left.
Now I live with Dad. He tries his best, but we don’t have the closeness I always wished for with Mum. I don’t hope anymore that she’ll call, apologise, come for me… Even though deep down, I’m still that little girl waiting for her to open the door and say, “I’m sorry, love.” But it won’t happen. She chose him. She chose the man who hit her child.
I don’t wish her harm. But I know this—one day, he’ll leave. He’ll find someone younger, prettier, easier. He’ll walk away, and she’ll be alone. And maybe then, she’ll remember me. But I won’t be the girl who forgives everything. Because a mother’s betrayal is a wound that never heals.
To every parent reading this: don’t have children if you aren’t ready to stand by them, if you can’t put them above your love life. We didn’t ask to be born. But if you bring us into this world—don’t abandon us.
Mum, if you ever read this… know I survived. I got back up. I’m strong. But I’ll never come to you in tears again, like I used to. You’re not my mother anymore. You’re just the woman who gave birth to me.