My mother abandoned me as a toddler but I refuse to hold it against her

Editor’s pick | 6 min read

I don’t remember Mum leaving but as those closest to me can attest, abandonment issues have affected my behaviour deeply, doing their best to sabotage relationships throughout my adult life.  

In March 1985, just months shy of my third birthday, Mum was done. Unable to communicate her feelings in a way our now emotionally-articulate generation takes for granted, Mum wrote Dad a note and then she left. 

For a decade of their marriage, my parents had lived happily in a Surrey village surrounded by friends before moving to the Isle of Wight in the year that I was born. But with four children to raise and no support network, Mum grew increasingly isolated and unhappy. 

With 50-odd people coming and going to Dad’s new sailing school every week, Mum felt like the hired help - shopping, cooking, and cleaning. She was unravelling - not enjoying her marriage or motherhood.

She left Dad, and she left us.

For years, deep inside my psyche lived a fragile little girl who felt abandoned and rejected. My adult self has gone to great lengths to tame and understand those emotions.  

Don’t get me wrong, Dad was a wonderful father. King of the seas, I grew up sailing, climbing trees, whizzing along zip wires, my knees grazed, dresses on back-to-front. Dad didn't care if my hair was in knots, as long as I knew how to tie knots. But now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see why cracks in Mum and Dad’s marriage might have appeared.

As a kid, I took Mum leaving in my stride, though some things baffled me. When I went to a friend’s house and saw her mother standing in the kitchen, fussing over them and cooking tea, I found it odd. Why is your mum here? I pondered.

Part-time mum

My mum Sue had moved to Dorset and I saw her for occasional weekends. She didn’t fuss over me but she was fun, letting me pierce my ears when Dad said no. She was my mischievous, part-time parent.

Trouble arrived in my late teens. One afternoon, I was watching my nephew waddle around all adorable, vulnerable and lovable, and my heart ached. He was the same age I’d been when Mum had left me behind.

The realisation triggered a cascade of emotions. How could I have been so insignificant to my own mother that she could have left me? I felt she had left me, not my father. I resented her for not loving me enough to continue living the life that made her miserable, for my sake. It paved the way for angst in my own relationships.

I met my husband Gaz when I was 26 and living in Bristol. His first gift was a box of novelty plasters because I’d mentioned I was clumsy – a prophetic metaphor for the healing he’d do over the years.

I adored him and wanted our relationship to go the distance, which is why I couldn’t understand my behaviour. I kept pushing Gaz away, yet I was desperately needy. I subconsciously wanted him to leave, yet my actions screamed, ‘PLEASE LOVE ME!’

In an attempt to get to the root of the problem, I had therapy to address my fear of abandonment and my need to test those closest to me to see if they might leave too. 

My therapist encouraged me to ask Mum the questions to which I needed answers. So I did, via email because I was too scared to do it in person. Why did you leave? What about us?

Mum, who now lived in Denmark, didn’t reply. Instead, she flew straight to Bristol and answered my questions woman to woman, face to face. I loved her infinitely for that.

Mum explained she’d left because her unhappy marriage was driving her insane. She’d debated taking us kids with her, but was moving into a friend’s small attic. She’d reasoned our stability was more important than her desire to be with her kids, so she left us in the house we loved, and attending the schools that we already knew.

Through adult eyes

As I listened to Mum describe the duties she felt bound to, yet disconnected from, I was not surprised that she’d grown so unhappy all those years ago. I realised she was just another human being trying to figure out her own issues. She was fallible, but she was brave.

Mum knew leaving was controversial, that she’d be judged, that if any of us turned into criminals, drug addicts or layabouts, the finger of blame would be pointed at her. ‘Well, their mother left…’

I grew to feel protective of Mum and didn’t want people to judge her. They didn’t understand that everything had turned out okay, that Dad had looked after us so well. That Mum wasn’t that good with young children but came into her own as we became adults.

People found it all very hard to understand. They didn’t understand that although my parents had split up when they did, they now got on well. That the split meant I wasn’t forced to grow up under the dark, hulking shadow of my parents’ unhappy marriage.

I was grateful to Mum for preventing that. I even became glad that she’d left. If she’d made different choices back then, I’d be a different person now. Who knows what the ramifications would’ve been if I’d witnessed my parents make each other sad for years?

There is a wonderful freedom in understanding and accepting that we’re all just monkeys on a space rock trying our best.  

Grateful

I don’t blame Mum for my insecurities. She had the balls to do what she needed to do. She’s loved us her way all along, and while it may not fit in with society’s cliché mould of motherhood, Mum has taught me a valuable lesson: we all have a responsibility to put our own happiness first. Only then can we truly help other people be happy.

I don’t want children but I don’t believe this is related to my childhood. That might be naïve and I am open to the idea that it is entirely linked. However, Gaz doesn’t want kids either and he does not come from a broken home. We’ve made the decision for many reasons to suit our lifestyle, including the financial and environmental impacts having kids bring, to the fact that we enjoy the simplicity and freedom of our life without them. 

By addressing my insecurities, Gaz and I built an impenetrable bond. We joked that I was the tide and he was the rock. I was an independent woman who didn’t need anybody while also being a frightened child too scared to be loved for fear of it being taken away. With time and patience, he showed me he wasn’t going anywhere.

Ten years on, I’m a bit less of a handful. My experiences have taught me a lot and I can’t help but feel women are burdened by too many ‘shoulds’ in life.

Should have babies. Should get married. Should be a size 10. Should have high-flying careers. Should stay at home and take care of the kids.

Should Mum have stayed, forgoing her own happiness to ensure it was our mother who picked us up from school and watched our plays? Some might argue, ‘yes she should’ - but not me.

In the decades since Mum left, equality between the sexes has made great leaps in many areas. Yet the stigma around mothers leaving their children prevails.

I have more reason than most to judge Mum for the decisions she made as a lonely and unhappy 30-something. But judgement gets us nowhere. Acceptance and forgiveness is key to my own happiness and I’m proud to call her my mum.

I bloody love her and I’m so proud of the relationship we’ve built. She made one move that had dramatic consequences, but she’s made a thousand kind, generous moves since. Dad might get to be the hero of the story, but Mum’s been quietly redeeming herself ever since.

SUE TOLD LACUNA VOICES:

‘It’s true to say throughout Kim’s 35 years, we have hardly had a nasty word or an unkind moment between us, despite the fact she has every right to hate me or have feelings of abandonment.

We shared our lives again during Kim's teenage years and had a wonderful time. Even the parties, experiments with drugs, drink and unsuitable boyfriends did not damage our love and friendship. I am very fortunate to have such a loving and caring daughter.

Kim has taught me to communicate, forgive, forget, and move on. She accepts the past and seems to understand even more than I do who I was all those years ago and how the only way I could cope was to run away. I'm so proud of my happily-married, beautiful, spirited daughter and consider myself very lucky indeed that we have such a great relationship.’

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