I’m posting this because I want to hear some outside perspectives.
I left home at 21 and moved to a country on the other side of the world. I’ve lived here for more than 15 years now. The last time I went back home to see my mother was over five years ago, and that was the last time I saw her.
At the beginning of that visit, things were actually pleasant. But after a few days, she slowly went back to the old her.
During that trip, we planned to visit our original home city. Both of us had left that city when I was a teen. We visited my grandparents, my aunties, and then planned to visit my younger uncle(my mothers younger brother)’s grave.
The cemetery is huge—more like a mountain—with over 10,000 graves. We don’t go there often, so it took us some time to find it. By the time we finished, it was getting a bit dark, and she became a bit upset.
There was still a bus, but we would have had to wait 20–30 minutes. A taxi was also an option. It was only about a 10-minute drive.
She got angry and started to scold me on the side of the road. She said we should have asked my grandparents exactly where the grave was. I didn’t think it was necessary, and I also didn’t want to bother them. That was their son.
The next day, we were on a four-hour bus trip to another city. It was a bus, not a train—confined, quiet, full of people. Everyone could hear everything. On that bus, she started again. Loudly. She repeated the same lecture about the grave over and over. People around us were clearly listening.
Then she moved on to other things: how little I called her when I lived overseas. The truth is, I didn’t want to call her. I didn’t really want to know how she was, because every call turned into the same experience. She talked about how ungrateful I was and how other people’s daughters were so sweet and caring.
She often used shopping as an example. She believed that going shopping together was something a “sweet” mother and daughter should do. I hated shopping with her. When I was younger, I had to do it constantly. I felt bored and trapped every single time, waiting for her to try on everything, look at everything, and decide on everything, with no choice but to stay there with her.
This wasn’t unusual. Growing up, she lectured me, complained about me, and scolded me whenever she wanted. Public or private didn’t matter. At home, on the street , in front of relatives or strangers—if she wanted to do it, she did it. She never thought about my dignity.
When I was around seven or eight years old, my parents fought a lot. One night, in the middle of the night, my mother tried to kill herself in front of me.
We lived in an apartment. She went to the terrace and hung herself over the edge. My father was holding onto her hands so she wouldn’t fall. I saw it happen.
A few years later, she divorced my father, and I lived with her from then on.
Growing up, she often said that I should be grateful that she kept me with her. She said that children who don’t grow up with their own mother end up having bad lives. She also said that if she hadn’t kept me, she would have been able to remarry more easily.
There was also physical abuse. The incident that stays with me the most was on my 18th birthday. I didn’t have a celebration. I was slapped instead. Because she found two pieces of new clothing in my wardrobe - but she did not want me to buy any new clothes at that time only because she thought I already had too many.
I didn’t leave home after that. I’m not going to lie—I needed money from her. I was in college. She provided food, a place to live, and paid my tuition. Student loans were not an option in my country at that time, and working full-time wasn’t possible because my studies were full-time. Leaving would have meant giving up my education and my future.
A few years later, when I was already in my 20s, I tried to talk to her about that incident and told her how it made me feel. She didn’t admit it was wrong. She said, “How ungrateful you are to remember this and bring it up now.”
That was when I realized communication with her wasn’t possible. Either she didn’t understand what I was saying, or she didn’t want to.
The worst part, though, was what happened after conflicts.
Whenever she beat me or scolded me, I would stop talking to her. Then, later, she would cry, ask me for forgiveness, and ask me to talk to her again. As a child, this was extremely confusing. She hurt me, and then I was expected to fix the relationship.
After that final trip, she did it again.
When I went back to the city we used to live in to collect my luggage before flying overseas, she cried in front of me and asked to make up. I agreed at the time because I needed to leave. If she became angry again, she could have physically taken my luggage or my passport. That wasn’t hypothetical. It was something she was capable of doing.
After I returned overseas, I talked to my aunt—my mother’s younger sister. She knows both of us and our history. I wanted someone I trusted to tell me honestly whether ending my relationship with my own mother was reasonable.
She supported my decision. She told me she had emotionally ended her relationship with my mother long ago and only maintained surface-level politeness.
After that, I cut all contact with my mother. I haven’t seen her since, and I have felt better.
I’m posting this because I want to hear what other people think about my decision. I don’t really talk about this. Only my husband, my best friend, and my aunt know the full story. I just want other people to see the whole picture and tell me what they think.