It’s a long story — maybe too long — but I’m going to start where it all began. My mom raised me alone. My dad? He was out of the picture long before I was even born. I never knew him—not through stories, not through pictures, nothing.

Whenever I asked about him growing up, Mom would simply say, “He wasn’t worth our time,” and that was the end of it.

I wasn’t sure if Dad’s absence made her so controlling or if that was just who she always was. Either way, I spent my childhood feeling suffocated by a mother who hovered like a hawk — always watching, always deciding.

When I was little, it seemed normal.

She chose my clothes, picked my friends, and decided what I’d do after school. “You’ll thank me someday,” she’d say with a smile that never quite reached her eyes.

But as I got older, I realized other kids had freedom I didn’t. Sleepovers, late nights, secret hangouts—all the things I dreamed about but never had.

I wanted those things too, but more than anything, I wanted Mom to be happy. She often told me, “All my happiness is in you,” and I believed her.

When it came time for college applications, I set my heart on New York University. I craved a fresh start—something new and far from the tight grip of my childhood.

But one day, I came home from school, and Mom was waiting for me with a sad smile.

“You didn’t get in,” she said softly.

I crumbled. Tears spilled down my cheeks as she wrapped me in her arms. “It’s okay. You’re still my girl,” she whispered.

So, I went to the local university and stayed living at home, burying my dreams deeper than I thought possible.

Then, one evening while cleaning my closet, I found a letter tucked behind a pile of old books. The envelope was torn open, but I could read the words inside.

I had been accepted to NYU. My dream had been real. And my mom had hidden it from me.

My heart pounded as I waited for Mom to come home. When she stepped through the door, I stood my ground, holding the crumpled letter.

“What is this?” I demanded, voice shaking but strong.

Her face paled. “Where did you find that?!” she hissed, lunging toward me. I stepped back, clutching the letter tighter.

“You weren’t supposed to find that!” Her voice cracked with p@nic.

“Why? Why did you do this?” I cried. “I could have gone to New York University. I could have chased my dreams!”

Tears streamed down her face. “Because you would have left me! Abandoned me! I would have been alone!”

I stood frozen, anger burning, but her sobs reached my heart. She looked so small, so broken.

I took a shaky breath, stepped forward, and pulled her into a hug. She clung to me, her tears soaking my shoulder.

I never left. I stayed at home, sacrificing my ambitions to keep Mom happy.

But as I grew older, living with her became unbearable. Her need to control every detail of my life smothered me like a thick fog.

I couldn’t go anywhere without her approval. She demanded to know where I was, who I was with, and what I was doing at every moment.

Dating? Forget it. Relationships lasted no longer than two weeks before she interfered.

At first, things were fine. But then the phone calls started—constant, endless questions, unexpected visits. Guys grew scared.

One night, I decided to fight back. I stayed at my boyfriend’s house, ignoring her calls.

For a moment, it felt liberating. I thought, “Maybe this is what normal feels like.”

But then the doorbell rang.

Standing there were two police officers.

Mom had called, saying my boyfriend had kidnapped me.

Hours later, after endless explanations, I felt humiliated and broken.

After she sabotaged another date, I snapped.

“Then find me someone who meets your standards!” I yelled. The sound echoed in the silent room.

To my sh0ck, she did.

One evening, I came home from work and found a man drinking tea with Mom in our living room.

Cristopher.

He smiled warmly, his hands wrapped around the cup as if he’d lived there forever.

We started talking, and to my surprise, I liked him. He was kind, funny, and he wasn’t afraid of Mom. In fact, they seemed to get along.

It felt like a miracle.

After almost a year, Cristopher planned a romantic dinner at Mom’s house.

I walked into the kitchen and stopped short—candles flickered, flowers lined the table, and Mom was there, camera in hand, grinning from ear to ear.

“What’s going on?” I asked, my eyes darting from the decorations to Mom’s excited face.

Cristopher opened his mouth, but Mom spoke first.

“Oh, Elizabeth! I’m so happy for you! Finally, we made it, dear!” Her voice was high-pitched, excitement spilling over.

“Made what?” I asked, confused.

Cristopher took a deep breath and knelt.

“Eliz­a­beth,” he said, steady and sure, “you’re the best thing in my life. Despite everything, I want to be with you, and only you. Will you marry me?”

He opened a small velvet box, revealing a sparkling ring.

“Yes! Yes!” I screamed, tears filling my eyes.

Cristopher slid the ring onto my finger. I moved to hug him, but Mom rushed over first, wrapping her arms around him, squeezing tightly. Then, she pulled me into a hug.

“In honor of this, you can even stay over tonight,” she said with a playful wink.

Cristopher and I exchanged a smile and laughed. To Mom, intimacy only happened at night.

When the wedding planning began, I had no say. Mom chose the venue, priest, baker, caterer, and even my dress. It felt like I was a guest at my own wedding.

Cristopher and I barely spoke during planning. Mom sat with a notepad, writing names I didn’t know, deciding who would be there.

Then Mom dropped a bomb.

“After the wedding, we can turn my room into a nursery. I’ll live in the living room.”

Cristopher and I exchanged stunned glances.

He cleared his throat. “We planned to live at my place after the wedding.”

Mom blinked, her smile fading. “You live in a different neighborhood. I don’t think I can move.”

Cristopher said firmly, “Only Elizabeth will move.”

Mom’s voice shot up, “Only her? What about me? Elizabeth, tell him you won’t leave me!”

I swallowed hard. “Cristopher and I have decided we will live together.”

Her face flushed. “You’re leaving me alone? After everything I’ve done?”

“I’ll visit you, Mom. We’re not moving far.”

She stormed off, slamming her door.

Then Mom got sick. Pale, coughing, clutching her chest, complaining of pain.

Cristopher and I canceled the wedding. Our savings drained by hospital bills, medications, doctor visits.

Mom needed me constantly—if I moved, she called after me, needing help, water, medicine.

Cristopher and I barely saw each other. When we did, Mom was there, talking over us, sitting between us.

Our relationship frayed. Small arguments became regular. I felt our love slipping away.

One night, after another fight, I said, “I feel like Cristopher and I are falling apart.”

She didn’t look up. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

Her words felt like a dagger.

When Mom’s health worsened, I found a new doctor. Dr. Green ran tests and finally told us:

“I don’t know what doctor you saw before, but your mom is completely healthy.”

I asked, “Are you sure?”

He smiled. “She’s healthier than I am.”

On the way home, Mom clutched her chest, groaning.

I snapped, “Why are you pretending to be sick?”

“I’m not!” she yelled, twisting in fake pain.

“Liar. Dr. Green said you’re healthy.”

She screamed, “He’s a charlatan!”

“I saw your results. I canceled my wedding and spent thousands on your treatment. Where’s the money?”

She yelled, “It’s in my account! Your money!”

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because if you’d gone with Cristopher, I’d have been alone!” she cried.

“We planned to live in the same city.”

“But not with me!” she sobbed.

I took a deep breath. “I’ve had enough. I can’t live like this anymore. It’s time for me to live my own life.”

Mom shouted, “What will you do?”

I didn’t answer. I locked my door, the first time I ever shut her out.

Her voice was frantic, banging on the door.

“I can’t do this anymore. Please let me go.”

I texted Cristopher, “Please come. I need to leave.”

He came quickly.

I packed quietly while Mom pleaded and screamed insults at Cristopher.

In the car, I breathed deep.

“This is for the best,” Cristopher said.

“Yes, I know,” I whispered.

I wasn’t sure if I’d cut ties forever, but I knew I needed peace.

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