“Never call me mom—you’re making me old!” How a woman rejected her daughter and future grandchild for the sake of fake youth
She’s been on edge for a month. Hurt, furious, lonely. Withdrawn into herself after her lover left her. And yet, she truly believed in “happiness,” that this time it would be real.
I’m 26, and her name is Gabija, she’s 44. Biologically—she’s my mother. But in reality, we’re strangers. She married my father at nineteen. A year later, I was born—an unwanted child, as she later repeated many times. They divorced almost right after my birth, and ever since, she only ever called him a “lazy failure.”
Irony? That “failure” has been living with his second wife for over twenty years. He has his own business, a large countryside house near Vilnius, two apartments, and even a home in Neringa. It was him who gifted me a place to live when I got married, where my husband and I now reside.
I was raised by my grandmother—my father’s mother. Later, my father took me into his new family. And you know, I never felt like an outsider there. My stepmother is a golden-hearted woman; to me, she’s become a real mom. But Gabija? I’ve called her by her name since childhood. And not without reason.
I was nine when Gabija took me to Palanga—”to relax, like a mother and daughter.” Back then, I just asked: “Mom, can we go to the beach?” And in return, a scream echoed through half the hotel:
—Never call me mom! It makes me sound old! Say Gabija, do you understand?
I understood. And since then, I never traveled with her again. She cared about men, salons, parties. Meanwhile, I stayed with my grandmother. Later—with my father and his new family. And thank God for that.
Over the years, Gabija had five husbands. Between them—endless lovers, reckless nights, fake smiles, and glued-on lashes. She worked in an elite salon in Žvėrynas. Injected herself with everything imaginable. Botox, fillers, threads, lips—her face no longer showed emotions, yet she still insisted: “I’m still young, I can still do it!”
Her last “prince” was two years younger than me. A guy named Dovydas. Thin, covered in tattoos, worked as a bartender in a hookah bar.
—Sweetie, meet Dovydas. We’re getting married. This is serious—she said, beaming like a schoolgirl before prom.
I froze. Then sighed quietly:
—Gabija… I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a grandmother.
Dovydas fussed, poured champagne, shouted “cheers!” But my mother turned gray. Silently, she grabbed her purse, slammed the door, and disappeared to who-knows-where.
A week passed. She returned suddenly—in tears, her face twisted:
—This is your fault! He left me! You ruined everything with your “grandma” talk! I refuse to get old! I’m only 37! I still want to live, and you’re dragging me to the grave with your kids!
I couldn’t believe my ears. The woman who gave birth to me called my pregnancy—a betrayal. Then came the last words, the ones that burned away whatever was left of our bond:
—I never had a daughter. And I won’t have grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Forget I exist.
And she left.
But we went to my real family—my grandparents. They hugged me, cried with joy. Already discussing baby names, who would walk the stroller, who would knit booties. They’re my support, my safe place, my real home.
And Gabija? Let her chase eternal youth. But one day, she’ll wake up in silence—in an empty apartment, in a foreign body, staring at a mirror where her reflection has long faded. And maybe then, she’ll realize what she truly lost.
