I’ve always been firm but fair. For thirty years, I taught at a village school in the Yorkshire Dales, guiding generations through their GCSEs and A-levels. Here, everyone knew me—respected me. At least, they did… until everything turned upside down.
My daughter, Emily Thompson, is 32. We haven’t spoken properly in years. I tried reaching out, but she withdrew. I never fully understood why… until someone showed me her blog. There, she writes about a “toxic upbringing” and a “cold, controlling mother.”
You can’t imagine the shock of reading her words. “She micromanaged my every move,” she claims. “I grew up suffocated by rules, never feeling loved.” Strangers comment, calling me a monster, blaming me for her anxiety, her failed relationships.
But it’s not true. Yes, I was strict. At eleven, I didn’t allow sleepovers—I worried. I insisted on punctuality, good grades. Is that abuse? Thanks to that structure, Emily earned straight A’s, won a scholarship to Oxford, built a career in London. All I wanted was for her to stand on her own feet. I never interfered in her marriage or choices. I only wished her happiness.
Now, my village whispers. Neighbors avoid me at the shops. “Fancy being a teacher,” they mutter, “when your own child says such things?” I hurry home, eyes down, cheeks burning. What did I do to deserve this?
When did I become her villain? My care—nightly maths drills, ironed uniforms, working double shifts after her father died—meant nothing. I raised her alone after cancer took him when she was ten. Skipped meals to pay for school trips. Sat up nights when she had flu.
Now I’m the monster.
I called. Begged her to take the posts down, to stop the lies. Pleaded, “Don’t erase my life’s work.” Silence. More blogs about “emotional neglect.”
Then, last Tuesday, she rang. Sobbing. Her husband—some City banker—left her. Three children, no home, savings drained. He’s run off with his assistant. “Mum, I’ve nowhere else…”
The phone trembled in my hand. Memories clashed: her teenage screams (“You’ve ruined me!”), versus the toddler who clung to me after nightmares. Two selves warred—the mother who aches to comfort, and the woman gutted by public shaming.
Do I welcome them here? Pretend the blogs never happened? I’ll not turn them away. But how do I forget the cruelty? The comments comparing me to some… prison guard?
Perhaps I should demand she recant. A public apology posted where she slandered me. Not for pride—but fairness. Or is that spite?
Tell me… would you forgive? Could you?