My mom has always been controlling—so much that she tried to name my baby after herself. When I refused and chose my grandma’s name, Lillian Rose, she disappeared for weeks. Then Grandma called, worried—Mom had told her I was still in the hospital and that the baby was sick. None of it was true.
I realized Mom had lied to everyone to avoid explaining why she hadn’t visited. She even told people I was having a breakdown. That was my breaking point. I told the whole family the truth and set firm boundaries: until she respected me as a mother, she wasn’t welcome.
Weeks later, she sent a letter—not quite an apology, but a glimpse of honesty: “I was trying to live through you. Now you’re living without me.” Eventually, I learned she’d started therapy.
When we finally met for coffee, she said, “I thought being a mother meant control. Now I know it means letting go.”
It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. I’m raising Lily to know her name was chosen with love—and that breaking the cycle sometimes means standing up to the ones who raised you.
