Mum’s biggest mistake

She raised me anyway.

When my mum told me I was her biggest mistake, I was relieved. I wasn’t hurt, shocked, or sad. I was relieved.

Imagine carrying this for four decades, I thought. Finally being able to say it. To acknowledge that the thing you gave your life to, you never wanted in the first place.

It took courage. And I’m not going to waste it.

Forced motherhood

I always knew Dad wanted kids. He came from a big family. He had four brothers he loved dearly, and he wanted the same for me. The way he told the story, he and Mum had agreed on three kids, then after having me she changed her mind.

Her fickleness deprived him of the children he was promised, the siblings who would have made my life complete.

This was his version.

I never heard Mum’s.

What I did hear, every morning at 5AM, the first seventeen years of my life, was her asking me if I was up, if I was really up, as I rolled in bed pretending to be awake. Then, after school, her hurrying me to leave so we wouldn’t get stuck in rush hour. And then, if I’d fallen asleep during the long drive home, her waking me. We’re home.

My entire childhood, Mum was there. She drove me to school and piano lessons. She cheered me on at competitions. She enrolled me for English classes, bought me exercise books and made sure I did them. When I applied for the scholarship that would pay for my foreign education, she delivered me to tutoring sessions, waited for me in front of exam halls.

I took Mum’s constant presence for granted. Dad’s scarcity, however, made him precious. I saw his six-day week at the clinic as testament to his virtue as the dutiful provider. I cherished our Sundays together. Movie marathons, pizza feasts, Monopoly nights.

Mum was never invited. I don’t remember why.

What I do remember was Mum breaking down in tears, years later, when I confronted her about her harsh treatment of Dad. Why do you never have a kind word for him? Why can’t he do anything right?

I don’t have money, she wailed. The first time I ever saw her cry.

I didn’t understand at the time. One thing seemed to have nothing to do with the other. Dad and I chalked it up to Mum being Mum. Difficult, unreasonable, unkind.

I understand now. As the years passed and I had my first, second, third job, Mum let slip more and more of her truth. I never got to study abroad. I want your life. Marrying and having you was the biggest mistake I ever made.

Mum’s mistake

My therapist asks how it makes me feel, to hear this unvarnished truth. And honestly, it doesn’t bother me.

Knowing I’m a mistake doesn’t change a thing about my life today. I am happy. I am healthy. I am loved. Knowing I’m a mistake doesn’t change any of the things Mum has given up for me. It doesn’t change who we are with each other, our relationship. She’ll never say she loves me, I’ll never say I love her, but we’ll love each other all the same.

Knowing I’m a mistake only reveals the extent of Mum’s misery, the unwanted burden she carried for decades.

And she can’t be the only one.

Motherhood is a decision with irreversible consequences. I would never let myself be talked into it, but I don’t know if it’s reasonable to expect every woman who doesn’t want a child to be able to refuse this preordained role.

When saying no could mean losing the person you love, disappointing your family, alienating your entire social circle if you’re unlucky.

Mum made one bad decision and lost the rest of her life. How many more are suffering in silence?

I don’t blame myself for Mum’s misery. But I wish, and I say this with no rancour, she’d never had me.

If she’d never had me, she might have continued to work, made her own money, felt the independence and freedom I enjoy every day. I cannot imagine what it’s like for her, to see me living the life she wanted for herself.

I can’t erase me from her past, her present, her future. I will always be there, a constant reminder of what might have been.

But I can borrow her courage to speak her truth, pour it into a newsletter, and hope it gives someone somewhere the strength to refuse the motherhood they’ll live to regret.

What do you think?

This is the newsletter I’ve been skirting around. This is me finally saying what I want to say. And now it’s your turn—for the women among us:

Would you refuse motherhood if you didn’t want it?

Would you feel you have a choice? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If my writing resonates, consider sharing it with someone who needs to hear it. It’s the best way to support my work.

Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val