When you give your children a choice, and they choose kindness – only to have cruelty meet them at the door.
This morning, I stood at a painful crossroads. It was my mother’s birthday—a woman who has caused me years of pain, manipulation, and deep emotional wounds. A woman who has, despite everything, managed to live on with strength seemingly drawn not from grace or goodness, but from control and narcissism.
And today, I gave my children a choice. I sat with them and explained the truth: that they were not required to wish her a happy birthday, that they were free to do whatever they felt in their hearts.
Some of them chose to call her—soft-hearted, young, and innocent—“just in case it’s her last birthday,” they said.
They were being bigger than the pain. They were doing what they thought was kind.
And so we called.
And called.
And called again.
Only to discover the truth: my mother has blocked me. Her phone wouldn’t ring. Her number refused our calls. The hopeful little faces beside me slowly turned to confusion, then sadness.
She blocked me—and by doing so, she blocked her own grandchildren too.
Not even for her birthday would she allow us the dignity of reaching out. Not even for the sake of the children.
And I realised, in that moment, how deep her cruelty runs.
This wasn’t just rejection—it was deliberate. Strategic. Her own warped version of punishment. A final insult wrapped up in silence.
I watched my children try to make sense of it. I watched them hurt, quietly. And I ached, not just for them, but for the part of me that still, after everything, hoped for decency. Hoped for something better.
But this is the lesson.
This is the truth.
You cannot force love where love has never lived.
And no matter how good you are, how pure your heart, how brave your children…
You cannot squeeze water from a stone.
And you cannot heal through hope alone.
Today, my children saw what I’ve spent a lifetime surviving.
Today, I stop feeling guilty for the boundaries I set.
And today, I hold my head high, knowing that even if the door was slammed in our faces, we tried. We tried with grace.
When grief becomes performative, silence is more honest.
It’s a strange kind of cruelty — offering your condolences with one hand, and turning your back with the other.
My daughter received a message — soft, kind, sorrowful — from someone who used to be her friend. Someone who had once laughed with her, and more recently, laughed at her. Someone who once knew her inside out, and now won’t even stand beside her in the hallway.
This girl messaged my daughter after the death of her best friend. She offered condolences. Words of comfort. A digital candle in the storm.
And when my daughter — raw, grieving, desperate for connection — said, “Can we please rebuild our friendship?”
She was met with silence.
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You don’t get to break someone, then pretend to care when they’re shattered.
No.
Worse than no.
Nothing.
Ghosted. Erased. Forgotten again.
Because some people only want to be seen grieving, not actually feel it — not sit in it, not show up for the ones left behind.
The silence screamed louder than any message. And the grief? It got heavier.
You don’t get to offer your sympathy, pose as the wounded soul, and then bolt the moment someone needs you. If you do, then your sympathy was never real. It was a mirror for yourself — not a light for someone else.
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Friendship doesn’t end at the funeral gates.
True friendship doesn’t dissolve under pressure. It doesn’t hide when the moment is hard.
It doesn’t vanish when someone asks for warmth.
You can’t send your “I’m so sorry for your loss” texts and then vanish when someone asks for human connection. That’s not kindness — that’s cowardice.
And to those who perform compassion while refusing to practice it — let me tell you something painful:
Your fake condolences are more hurtful than saying nothing at all.
Because pretending to care is not harmless.
It’s another form of emotional abandonment — and sometimes, it hurts just as much as the loss.
I never imagined I’d be writing something like this – especially not after something so heartbreaking.
As many of you know, a local teenage girl recently passed away. A beautiful soul – gone far too soon.
In the midst of deep grief, I made a private post in a mums’ group. I didn’t mention any names. I didn’t mention the school. I never claimed to know exactly what happened. I simply expressed what many others were already quietly wondering – whether long-standing, well-known bullying could have played a role.
Because the truth is – this young girl had not attended school for weeks, possibly months. She had been severely bullied for years, by the same students, all the way from primary into high school.
And yes – there are text messages that clearly referenced painful thoughts. (These are now known and will be passed to the appropriate people.)
So no – it was never my intention to spread misinformation or make accusations.
It was never about blame.
It was about grief. Shock. Patterns too painful to ignore.
What truly confused and shook my daughter – and many others – was a message she received from the girl’s mother shortly after her death:
“Don’t let the bullies win.”
That one sentence has been echoing in our home.
But now, we are told by the school and others that this was simply a tragic accident – and had nothing to do with bullying.
And I want to say: I hear that. I accept that. And if this was a complete and unrelated tragedy, then I am truly, genuinely sorry for ever implying otherwise.
But I also want to say this…
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The School’s Email Felt Like a Public Shaming
Today, the school issued an email that referred to my post, stating it made “incorrect claims” and was “not factual.”
Let me be very clear:
I never claimed to know the full truth.
I never identified the child, the school, or any individuals.
I spoke from a place of concern, sadness, and compassion.
The fact that this email was sent to the entire parent community felt like a public attack on my character, as if I had maliciously spread lies – which I did not.
And now, I’m being bullied – again – by the same group of mothers whose children have bullied my own daughter for years.
The irony and pain of this is not lost on me.
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So, Here’s What I Want to Say
Before I receive any more hate…
Before I’m judged or blamed or shamed any further…
Let me raise my hands and say: I’m sorry.
I’m sorry if my post caused anyone more pain in an already heartbreaking time.
I’m sorry if it came across as insensitive – that was never, ever my intention.
I now understand that the family believes this tragedy was not related to bullying, and I respect that. And I will never speak over a grieving parent.
But please, understand that I am grieving too.
My daughter is grieving her friend.
And so many of us are just trying to make sense of a senseless loss.
The coincidences, the history, the silence – it all left us stunned. The emotion behind my post came from that space.
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Let’s Remember Why This Hurts So Much
Because a child has died.
A beautiful child who should still be here.
Let’s not let our fear of being wrong make us cruel to those who are hurting.
Please – let’s lead with kindness. Let’s give one another the benefit of the doubt. Let’s protect our kids – and each other – with love, not control.
Even in her final days, my mother chooses lies over love—and I’m left holding decades of heartbreak.
A Lifetime of Manipulation
From the moment I was old enough to recognise emotional manipulation, I saw it in my mother. She has always been a master of twisting narratives, of turning situations to suit her needs, and of denying her behavior while accusing others—especially me—of the very lies she tells. Growing up with a narcissistic parent is like walking through a minefield blindfolded. Just when you think you’re safe, something explodes.
And now, here we are. My mother is in the hospital, dying. A wound on her foot became infected—so severely that the infection entered her bone. Her body is giving out. But somehow, the manipulations continue.
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Lies, Even Now
I recently received a message from her saying she had vomiting and diarrhoea. Concerned, I called the hospital. I wanted to know if there was a virus going around her ward, if it could be related to her infection, or—worst case—if it was a sign of sepsis. The nurse I spoke to was kind, but also confused.
“There’s been no vomiting. No diarrhoea,” she told me.
I thanked her and hung up, but the sting stayed. My mother lied to me. Again. About something so ridiculous, so pointless. And I still don’t understand why.
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A Final Opportunity, Lost in Deceit
This should be a time for healing, for final moments filled with truth and forgiveness. But my mother—true to form—continues to weave her web of deceit, spinning stories for her medical team, for the family, and for me. She manipulates conversations, embellishes symptoms, plays the victim. And even now, facing the end, she clings to the same patterns that poisoned our relationship.
She has accused me of being the liar, the manipulator, the untrustworthy one, my entire life. But now the truth is bare. The lies were always hers. Still are.
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Grieving the Mother I Never Had
I’m grieving, but not in the way people expect. I’m grieving the mother I never had. The nurturing, honest, stable presence I longed for. The kind of mother who might have used her final moments to say, “I’m sorry. I see you now.” Instead, I’m left with the weight of her fabrications, even as the machines beep beside her hospital bed.
Sadly this is not just about a woman dying. It’s about a lifetime of damage that never found a moment of repair. It’s about the pain of knowing that not even death can change some people.
When Love, Loss, or Survival Reshapes How We Honour Our Mothers
A Day That Means Many Things
Every year, as Mother’s Day approaches, I find myself sitting with a mix of feelings—some warm, others sharp, many unspoken. It’s a day drenched in expectation and sentimentality, but for those of us with complicated histories, it often feels heavier than a bouquet of flowers can carry.
This year, I wanted to explore what Mother’s Day really means when your relationship with your mother isn’t simple or sweet—and how both the first and the last Mother’s Day can reveal more about us than we expect.
The First Mother’s Day: A Memory We Never Made
Our first Mother’s Day is really just a dream. A haze. None of us can truly remember it—what we wore, what we said, whether we made our mothers smile or feel special. We don’t remember if there were flowers or cards or the scent of breakfast being made in a chaotic kitchen.
And yet, we were there. Just babies in their arms.
At that point in life, there is no decision to be made. We love without thinking. We give ourselves over completely, because we have no choice. Whether our mothers deserved that love or not is another matter altogether.
In those early years, Mother’s Day isn’t for us—it’s for them. And no matter what kind of mother we had—kind, distant, nurturing, unpredictable—we were too small to choose anything different. We were their children, and that was that.
The Last Mother’s Day: The One That Stays With Us
But the last Mother’s Day—that’s something different.
That’s the one that stays with us.
That’s the one that asks something of us.
Some people don’t even know it’s the last. Life doesn’t always come with warnings. One day you’re bringing flowers and awkwardly worded cards, and the next, the seat at the table is empty. There’s an ache in your chest, and you wish you had said more, done more, asked more.
For others, the last Mother’s Day doesn’t arrive quietly. It builds slowly, with a kind of dread. Not because of loss, but because of harm. Because the woman who gave birth to you doesn’t feel safe. Because honouring her feels dishonest, painful—even harmful.
And yet, on that day, we’re expected to smile, to entertain, to act as though she’s the greatest woman on earth.
When Honouring Feels Like a Lie
But what if she wasn’t?
What if she hurt you more than she held you?
What if being around her drains every ounce of your strength and makes you forget who you are?
That’s when the last Mother’s Day becomes something else entirely.
It becomes a choice.
And that’s what makes it powerful.
For the first time, you get to ask:
Do I want to spend this day with the woman who gave me life? Or do I want to protect the life I’ve built in spite of her?
That choice is not easy. It comes with guilt, with judgment from others, and sometimes with a lingering grief for the mother you wish you had.
But it also comes with truth.
Choosing Peace Over Performance
You get to choose peace.
You get to choose distance.
You get to say:
This day is sacred, and I will no longer perform love for someone who has harmed me.
That doesn’t make you cold. It doesn’t make you cruel.
It makes you whole.
It makes you brave.
So whether you spend Mother’s Day at her side, across the country, or surrounded by the people who feel like family—you get to decide.
Maybe the last Mother’s Day isn’t about her at all.
Maybe it’s about you—choosing yourself, your sanity, your healing.
Maybe that’s the most sacred act of all.
Honouring Your Truth
Mother’s Day doesn’t look the same for everyone, and it’s time we stop pretending it should. For some, it’s a joyful celebration. For others, it’s a quiet reckoning. And for many, it’s something in between.
Whatever this day brings up for you—grief, relief, love, loss, confusion—you’re allowed to feel it fully. You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to explain. You just have to honour the truth of your experience.
That, too, is an act of love.
A note for you and a reminder for myself-
If this piece resonated with you, please know you’re not alone. Mother’s Day can stir up complicated emotions—grief, guilt, anger, even relief—and all of those feelings are valid. Whether your relationship with your mother is loving, painful, or somewhere in between, your experience matters.
You’re allowed to protect your peace, honour your truth, and give yourself the care you may never have received.
If you’re navigating this day with a heavy heart, I see you. I’m walking it too.
SomeonesMother 