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It was a calm December morning when I encountered my mother for the final time. I was content in my small apartment with my little family, newly married and stepping into a parental role not just for my own child but for my younger sister, Emma. Transitioning into a caregiver for a teenager felt unusual, but I was relieved that we were both safe. I had managed to escape the grasp of my abusive mother and hoped Emma would find the strength to do the same. Eventually, the call came: “Lila, I need you to come and get me.”
I recognized that urgent tone in her voice—the same one I would have used if I had an elder sister to rescue me. My partner and I drove to our parents’ house to pick her up. My mother tried to intimidate us and manipulate Emma into believing she was imagining the abuse. Despite my fear, I found the courage to stand between them and declared, “I only care about my sister. I’m only here for my sister.” My confidence was fleeting as my mother shot me a look that made my stomach churn. I got Emma into the car, but my mother’s expression haunted me, signaling that this was far from over.
On that December morning, my mother made her move to regain control. When the intercom buzzed, I froze, my heart racing as I saw her furious face on the screen. Something compelled me to let her in. Perhaps I hoped she would apologize, or maybe I was simply afraid of her. Sitting on the couch beside Emma, I ensured I positioned myself between them.
My mother entered and looked at me with a wounded expression, convinced she was the victim. I foolishly shared how she had abused me throughout my life, which only fueled her rage—not because she cared about my pain, but because she feared what others might think. “Is that what you’ve been telling people? Who have you told?” she demanded, her preoccupation with her reputation sickening me. Emma appeared lost and frightened, while my mother showed no sign of compassion.
I explained that I hadn’t confided in anyone because it was too painful. In response, she shifted the focus to herself, claiming, “Well, I’ve been in pain! You not talking to me hurts the entire family.” After numerous futile attempts to communicate her abusive behavior, she erupted in a hysterical scream. When aggression didn’t work, she switched tactics, sobbing and begging for forgiveness.
Part of me wanted to relent. If it had only been me who suffered, I might have forgiven her. But I had newfound strength, and my resolve was bolstered by my sister. I firmly stated that Emma would be living with me, and we would not see her again. As my mother headed for the door, a sinking feeling settled in my stomach; I knew this was not finished.
“Do you have a way home?” I asked. She nodded but her expression didn’t match her words. I offered to drive her, but she smirked as she replied affirmatively. I sensed the battle was far from over.
My father called, panicked and frantic, unlike anything I had ever heard from him before. He believed my mother was still at my flat, but she had vanished. Hours later, he found her meandering near their home, seemingly fine but drawing the attention she craved.
The drama caused a rift between Emma, Kat, and me, as Kat assumed the role of caregiver for our mother. That day, we lost not just our mother, but also our father and sister. Escaping abuse means leaving behind so much, including loved ones.
“Why didn’t you leave sooner?” people often ask. I understand their confusion. Abusers are cunning, manipulating the entire family and gaslighting everyone involved. My father and Kat were under her spell, believing her to be the perfect mother. Why would I speak up when no one would believe me? I didn’t even believe myself.
Witnessing the toll on Emma prompted me to recognize that losing everything was worth the cost. I knew many wouldn’t believe us, and that severing ties with our abuser would be painful. But Emma inspired me to fight for a better future, free from the cycle of abuse.
Six years later, we are still healing. Our relationship with Kat endures, a testament to our sisterly bond that our mother could never dismantle. However, we mourn the father we lost, even though he is still alive. Each day we feel the weight of our losses, but we also celebrate what we gained: freedom.
Freedom is daunting when you’ve never known it. We are allowed to be ourselves, yet this newfound autonomy brings anxiety. We struggle with self-identity but are also free to surround ourselves with positivity and pursue our dreams without ridicule.
Now, as we settle into new phases of our lives and consider motherhood, we are determined to break the cycle. Our mother may have taken much from us, but she cannot extinguish our desire to be different. No matter her efforts, she could never break the bond we share as sisters.
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In summary, despite the scars left by an abusive upbringing, my sister and I have forged a path toward healing and empowerment. Together, we embrace our freedom and the future we wish to create for ourselves and our future children.