The Ache in My Heart: My Mother Only Remembers Me When She Needs Something
My name is Emily. I’m 29, and in my heart lies a wound that never heals. My mother, Margaret Thompson, only calls when she wants something from me. Every ring of the phone feels like a blade reopening old scars. She never asks how I’m living, what I dream of, whether I’m happy. Her voice crackles through the receiver only when she needs help—then silence, heavier than any words. Every time, I wonder: why can’t she see me as her daughter, not just a means to solve her problems?
I’ve grown used to her coldness, but the pain lingers. Every conversation opens with the same accusation: “Emily, why do you never call? Have you forgotten your own mother?” Then, as if scripted, comes the request—money, a favour, something else. She has no interest in my life, my feelings. All that matters are her own affairs. It’s been this way since I was a child. My mother never knew what I loved, what I longed for, who my friends were. Her only question: “Are your grades alright?” All warmth, all love, came from my grandmother, who became my only family.
When I turned 18, my mother packed my things and said flatly, “I’ve done my duty. Now live on your own.” Those words still echo in my bones. I moved in with Gran to a quiet village near Manchester. She insisted I focus on university, not part-time jobs. We lived humbly on her wages and pension, but it felt like home. My mother vanished from my life, as if I’d ceased to exist.
I graduated, found work. Gran was my guardian angel, but five years later, she passed. Before dying, she left me her flat—ensuring my mother couldn’t throw me out again. At the funeral, my mother appeared, but her presence was hollow. No embrace, no comfort. After, I stayed in Gran’s flat, trying to rebuild.
Two years passed with no contact. Then, out of nowhere, she called. We spoke—rarely, stiffly. I hoped she’d changed, but three months in, she asked me to take out a loan for her. The bank had refused, so she decided I should fix it. I said no—not out of spite, but because I wouldn’t gamble with debt. Silence followed for over a year.
By then, my life had shifted. I met Daniel. We fell in love, married quietly. The wedding was small but joyful. My mother wasn’t there—I couldn’t reach her. She only learned I was married six months later, when she called again. “Emily, you’re married?!” she gasped, then quickly invited us over. Foolishly, I hoped she wanted to mend things. But the moment we stepped into her crumbling flat on the city’s edge, she began lamenting her need for repairs. The hint was clear: she expected us to pay.
I told her honestly—we had neither the money nor the time, saving for our own flat’s repairs. She frowned, then disappeared again. This time, for a year. During that silence, I became a mother. Daniel and I had a daughter, Sophie. My mother never asked about her, about me, about how I coped. She doesn’t care.
I’m tired of stepping on the same rake. Every call is a hope that shatters, leaving only hurt. I’ve made my choice: no more. Why keep a bond that only brings tears? I’ll protect my family, my daughter, my heart. Yet somewhere inside, a little girl still waits for the day her mother might call just to say, “Emily, I love you.” Is that truly too much to ask?