A Beautiful Beginning, and a Brutal Ending

Becoming a mother and becoming homeless on the same day is a reality few can fathom. One minute, I was cradling my newborn son—this perfect little bundle of warmth, love, and hope. The next, I was facing the cold reality that I had nowhere to go. No roof. No plan. No safety net for the most fragile moment of my life.

That was the day my mother kicked me out.

The Cost of Defiance

She did it the same day her first grandchild was born.

My husband and I were in our twenties. Grown, but still tethered to family expectations. Our love wasn’t the issue—permission was. And we knew we would never receive it. So we chose each other, and we chose our child, fully aware that it would come at a cost.

But we underestimated just how steep that cost would be.

A City With No Shelter

We searched tirelessly across Sydney for housing. Queue after queue, inspection after inspection, rejection after rejection. No one wanted to take a chance on us—too young, no credit history, no references. And then, in a hospital bed with my baby in my arms, my husband delivered the final blow: the Department of Housing had a ten-year waiting list.

That was the moment I truly understood fear. I’ve been held at gunpoint before, but nothing compares to the terror of not knowing how you will protect your child.

A Mother’s Love—Conditional

I’ve tried to make sense of it. Why did my mother cast me out when I needed her the most? Was it because I was pregnant out of wedlock? Because I disobeyed her wishes? I was still her daughter. I was carrying her grandson.

But all I received was shame. Disappointment. Rejection.

What I’ve never understood is this: why does a son deserve more love than a daughter?

History Repeating in Reverse

Sixteen years later, the pain remains. Especially now—watching history repeat, but in reverse.

My brother has a girlfriend. They’ve only been together a month. They’re not married. She isn’t pregnant. But my mother is happy to open her home and heart to her without hesitation. No lectures. No judgment. Just warmth and support.

Everything I needed and never received.

Mother’s Day: A Time for Silence

Mother’s Day is the hardest. The world tells us to honour our mothers with cards and gratitude. But what do you write to a woman who discarded you when you needed her most?

How do you express gratitude to someone who made your most fragile moment even more terrifying – who kicked you and your newborn baby out with nowhere to go?

I’ve considered telling her the truth. Pouring all my pain into a single letter. Telling her exactly what she’s done, how deeply she’s hurt me, how much her favoritism destroyed any hope of closeness. But I know how she would react.

She would turn it around. Call me stupid. Remind me of the money she spent on my private school education. Accuse me of being ungrateful, useless, a disappointment. She’s said it all before.

So instead, I stay silent. Or I write something generic, like people do in Christmas cards for people they barely know.

Maybe I’ll write something like: “Season’s greetings this Mother’s Day. Congratulations on birthing your son. I hope his girlfriend is everything you ever wanted in a daughter.”Maybe that’s as honest as I can be without inviting more pain.

“Best of luck with everything hopefully you don’t destroy your potential daughter-in-law in the same way that you destroyed me.”

“May you continue to move faster than your karma”  – now that’s a nice one, especially towards someone who has been nothing but cruel to their child for their entire life.

How about – “you kicked me out of home when I was most vulnerable with a newborn baby and absolutely nowhere to go – this Mother’s Day, and always, I hope you remember everything that you’ve put me through” – realistically it sounds so much better than saying something along the lines of “I hope the universe treats you as fairly as what you have treated me my entire life”… that wish although filled with sincerity would not go down very well.

The Truth I Carry

Maybe one day I’ll forgive her. Maybe I won’t.

But this is my truth:

I became a mother and lost a mother in the same breath.

And every year, on the second Sunday in May, I remember it all over again.