I’m 38, yet I still live in fear of my own mother. It gnaws at me from the inside.

Every year, I find myself looking into the mirror, reminding myself of who I’ve become—a woman who has accomplished so much: a university degree, a senior role at a logistics firm in Manchester, a stable marriage, though without children of our own. I love and respect my husband, Edward, who is my rock, and his son from a previous marriage, Oliver, who I’ve come to see as my own. By all measures, I have a family, comfort, and security. But deep inside, there’s still a fear—a fear that isn’t the fleeting terror of childhood, but something much deeper, more visceral. Fear of my own mother.

At thirty-eight, I manage a department, solve complex problems, negotiate with partners, hire and dismiss staff. Yet the moment she appears, everything crumbles. My knees buckle, my throat tightens, my palms turn cold, and in my mind’s eye, I see scenes from childhood: her yanking the blankets off me, dragging me by the hair because I hadn’t washed the dishes. Her hurling a slipper at me when I came home late from school. Her laughing mockingly in front of yet another suitor, comparing me to other girls. Her three marriages were pure torment. My father vanished without a trace, and I don’t even know if he’s alive. Mother only grew harder, crueler with time.

Edward sees it all. He doesn’t just suspect—he’s witnessed it. He’s watched me freeze at the sound of her voice on the phone, seen me stumble over my words when she appears unannounced. He’s suggested therapy, insisted I must unburden myself. But I—I can’t. A grown woman, a department head, I fear seeming weak. Seeking help would mean admitting I’m not in control. I’ve spent my life forging an unshakable façade. Yet one call from her, and the iron lady crumbles into a trembling child.

At first, she visited “briefly”—just a few days. Then those days stretched into a week. She arrived with bags, rifled through our wardrobes, poked into papers, even once opened my laptop. Over dinner, she casually asked Edward:
*“How many mistresses have you had, married to such a cold, dreary woman?”*
I could not speak. Not a word. I stared at my napkin while Edward, furious, showed her the door.

But she stayed. Two more days. With one phrase: *“I’m your mother. You’re my daughter.”* That was all. With those words, she erased every boundary, every guilt, every unwelcome intrusion.

And I cannot refuse her. That is my tragedy. The moment I hear her voice, my tongue turns to stone. I can’t say *no.* I always say, *“Fine, come…”* even as every part of me screams, *“Don’t! I don’t want you here!”* I lie to myself, to my husband, to everyone. And I hate myself for it.

A week ago, she called and calmly announced:
*“I’ve bought tickets. I’ll be there from the 30th of December to the 10th of January.”*
Never mind that Edward, Oliver, and I had already planned our holiday—a quiet getaway to York, just the three of us. I’d even arranged the menu. But Mother decided, and that was that. And, of course, I still couldn’t say, *“Don’t come.”*

This time, Edward and I made a different choice. We’ll leave. Book a hotel. Turn off our phones. Run. Let her arrive, kiss the door, and do as she pleases. This isn’t revenge. It’s survival. Because I cannot endure another New Year’s with her.

Sometimes, it scares me to admit, even to myself—I do not love my mother. I fear her. And I don’t understand why she hates me so, why she still poisons my life. All I want is to live—without tears, without fear, without the constant dread of pain, humiliation, mockery.

I don’t know if fleeing my own home is the mature choice. But right now, it’s the only thing that might save me. Even just a little. Even just for a while. From the mother I still cannot defy—not even at thirty-eight.