Because motherhood doesn’t count unless it’s posted.
Sucker-Punched by a Picture
year and a half later and I still get sucker-punched by a picture. Not just any picture, the kind carefully staged to scream “look how close we are, look how perfect we are.”
The “daughter she always wanted,” front and center, spa days, smiles, the works. The kind of photo designed to rake in likes faster than a cat meme.
And me? I see it for what it is: a desperate grab for the Mum of the Year crown she never earned. A photo-op. A cover-up. A pathetic attempt at rewriting history with someone else’s child drafted in as her supporting actress.
Because why settle for being a mum when you can be a content creator with trauma merch?
Performance Over Parenting
She doesn’t want a daughter. She wants an audience. She doesn’t crave connection, she craves applause. Motherhood, to her, isn’t love. It’s PR.
No late-night talks. No “I’ve got you, even when you’re a mess.” Just hashtags and halo-polishing. #BestMum #GirlsDay #Blessed.
She’s not a mum, she’s a one-woman media team. Lights, camera, halo. Behind the curtain? Nothing but ghosted calls and the kind of silence you can choke on.
Easy Love, Low Effort
Here’s the truth: it’s easy to show up for someone who lives miles away, once or twice a year. Easy to buy a gift, pose for a photo, post a caption, and collect a round of applause online. Low effort, maximum clout.
Meanwhile, the daughter who lived across the road? The one screaming to be seen, begging to be loved, breaking herself into pieces trying to be good enough? Too hard. Too loud. Too real.
She wanted easy love. Disposable love. The kind of love that fits neatly into a square on Instagram.
I was never too much. I was just too human. And human doesn’t get likes.
Villain of the Story
And when I finally said enough? When I stopped auditioning for her approval like a contestant on Britain’s Got Mum Issues? She did what narcissists do best, rewrote the script.
Suddenly, I wasn’t the daughter she ignored. I was the villain. The ungrateful child. The drama queen. The family black sheep.
She threw shame on me like it was bloody confetti at her pity parade. The family didn’t cut me out because I lied — they cut me out because I told the truth.
Meanwhile, she’s at home rehearsing her lines: “I don’t know what Zoe’s talking about. Look how close I am with my daughter.”
Which one? Doesn’t matter. Any daughter will do as long as the Wi-Fi’s on and the lighting’s good.
Cutting the Ties
So yes, I cut ties long before these glossy little photos appeared. I wasn’t waiting around for season two of her tragic soap opera.
Because this isn’t motherhood. It’s marketing. It’s her endless campaign for the title of Amazing Mum, even if she has to drag someone else’s kid into her circus act.
And the irony? She spent years making me feel like I was too much. Too loud. Too needy. Too difficult. But here’s the kicker: I was never too much. I was just too real.
And reality doesn’t look good with Valencia filter.
Keep It — I’m Done
So keep your daughter-shaped plaster. Keep your curated feed. Keep posing like sainthood can be bought with selfies.
Paint it. Filter it. Hashtag it. Parade it. But deep down, you know it’s rotten. You can Facetune a wrinkle, but you can’t Facetune dysfunction. You can filter a selfie, but you can’t filter the fact that you failed me.
Motherhood isn’t a brand deal. But she treats it like one.
And me? I’ll keep my freedom.
Messy, raw, feral!
But finally mine.
The Final Truth
Because here’s the thing: you don’t scare me anymore. You don’t own the story. Every time I see those pictures, I don’t think maybe it’s me. I think: of course it’s her.
Because this is who she’s always been. Performance over people. Image over integrity. Likes over love.
So yeah, people will say I’m “causing trouble again.” That I’m the problem. That’s always been her favourite storyline, hasn’t it? But here’s the truth: I don’t care anymore. I’m not even relevant in her life. She cut me out, replaced me, erased me, and still — somehow — I’m the one carrying the blame.
But not anymore. I won’t carry it. I won’t cover it. I won’t shut up so she can look shiny.
She can keep pretending.
I’m done pretending.
And if Mum of the Year really is an award, let her have it. She worked hard for that Wi-Fi.
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