Because of that letter, I felt like I had dug my own grave. On my headstone it would read: “Here lies the worst mother ever,” surrounded by graves that say “Loving mother.” Or better yet, just cremate me—let this worst mother burn in hell. How could I have failed on so many levels? I had fought for their education when they wanted to give up. I had fought for a better life, and somehow they ended up living the very life I had lived. Therapy helped me crawl back up a little, but the intense grief of having no contact remained. And believe me, I did everything I could. Around that time, I was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, and suddenly, for me at least, the puzzle pieces started falling into place. I finally understood why my emotions had always been so intense, why relationships felt so difficult, and why motherhood sometimes felt like a battlefield. Therapy became my lifeline. It didn’t just give me insight into my behavior and past, but also into the impact my actions had on my children. I began working on my emotional regulation, learning how to navigate my ADHD, and trying to forgive—both myself and others. ADHD revealed itself when I described how I had been in school: a mix between a dreamer and a whirlwind. My thoughts would drift into distant fantasy worlds, while my body moved restlessly through the classroom. The result? I was often sent into the hallway to finish my work in silence. Only later did it all make sense—my drive and my restlessness had a name.
School had often felt like a slow train ride through dull landscapes, yet somehow I made it through, with occasional bursts where I could channel my creativity and enthusiasm. Despite the daily struggle with overwhelming emotions, there were moments of clarity where I realized I was simply human—a person who makes mistakes, who sometimes trips over her own emotions and burdens her children with them. But one thing has always remained certain: I love my children, and that will never change. During those difficult years as the “worst mother,” I often saw life and my youngest child’s choices differently, especially when it came to her friendships and decisions. Where she found freedom and support in her social circle, I often saw risk and concern. Even so, everything I did came from love and care—even when that meant being the mother who said “no,” or the one who sometimes lost control. I have learned that even if I was not the perfect mother, I always did my best. And sometimes, that is all you can do.
Then came a second worst letter, after she had started therapy herself. It followed my unexpected visit—with a friend—to the shed where she had essentially been living since she was sixteen, at her Wordfather’s place. The week before, we had left a teddy bear there. This time, I arrived with a piece of cheese, a bottle of Hugo, and a ring that read “I Am Enough.” I knocked on the door. That evening turned into a complete disaster. It ended with me being labeled—even by the police—as the worst mother, and I was told to stop trying to contact my daughter or approach her friends. Imagine that: the foolish mother wanting contact with her Riddledaughter, the child she had brought into the world. I stayed silent for two years. That second worst letter hit me like a concrete Louis bag straight to the heart. Again, there was a long list of accusations—or wishes, depending on how you look at it—and I tried to respond with understanding. But everything was blocked. I couldn’t respond at all. I even called Altrecht to ask how it was possible that I had become one of her traumas without any conversation taking place. My psychologist found it strange too, but if she didn’t want contact, then she didn’t want it.
My powerlessness, grief, and anger grew rapidly. To me, this felt like parental alienation in its purest form. And then something new surfaced: apparently, I had once said on the phone that I wanted to end my life. I don’t remember saying that. What I likely said was that it might be better if I weren’t around—but by that, I meant moving far away, not actually dying. It hurts deeply that she interpreted it that way. I think what I really meant was that I wanted all the chaos to stop. All the problems. The worst part is that we cannot talk about it together. As my Professorson once said, it’s like she opens the door, shouts something, and slams it shut again before anyone can respond or say, “You’re right—what can I do to make it better?” Or even, “Did I misunderstand you?” Then there was another accusation—that I hadn’t properly understood her cry for help about her previous boyfriend. What she told me was serious, but she had already ended the relationship, and I asked if she wanted me to talk to his mother. She said no. Trying to lighten the moment, I joked that I would show up with my Louis Beton bag instead of Louis Vuitton—a joke we often made when something serious happened. But she took it very badly and felt I had not seen how much help she really needed. At that time, I only saw her once or twice a week. She lived with Wordfather. Where was he in this story? I blame myself for not seeing it. It is a constant search for balance between understanding and self-preservation, and sometimes—just sometimes—I wonder how I am supposed to keep caring without losing myself.
She ended that letter the same way: “I wish you all the best.” This time without the heart. That was gone. A year later, I looked at one of her friend’s Instagram accounts, curious. And there it was—photos of that sad teddy bear, clearly turned into a victim of their dark humor. Images of them pretending to cut it with scissors, middle fingers raised. Someone had commented: “What did that poor bear ever do to you?” Out of pure desperation, I replied: “Why? You don’t even know me.” I was blocked immediately. After two years, with permission from Wordfather, I was allowed to send her a letter. After many conversations, some form of contact had been re-established. She had become depressed again, and he began to realize that not everything could be blamed on me. But it did not matter. The door was locked tighter than ever, secured with heavy chains, and I no longer knew what to do. The second worst letter also stated that Wordfather never spoke badly about me. But the fact that he supported her decision said enough—he agreed that I was the worst mother. And yes, I am aware of that. I have read books like When Parents Hurt and written an apology letter. I have sent birthday gifts and small presents, which she accepted. I have sent loving messages. I have begged to meet for coffee, to explain, to apologize. But no. It is like Monopoly: go straight to jail, no salary. I was sent straight to jail without a trial. The door only closed tighter, more locks added.
I felt like my grief made me a burden to everyone. Until one day, I reached out again to one of her former creative friends. They were no longer friends—not because of me, but for other reasons. We spoke on the phone and shared memories from the time when everything was still good. I cherish those memories deeply, even though I have lost her somewhere along the way. Because we truly had so much fun together. In fact, before she returned to therapy, everything had seemed fine. That friend pointed me toward The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck by Mark Manson. I devoured the book and am now reading it for the second time, while opening myself up to write all of this down. Because there is nothing left I can do—I have done everything to restore contact. Meanwhile, contact with Wordfather has dropped back to zero after I discovered that ignoring me had been part of the plan. Long live X. I cannot continue like this, drowning in grief. Something has to change. People tell me: “Let her go, let her be.” But I cannot. I simply cannot let go.
☕️ A cup of comfort
You were not lying in a grave
You were standing in it
With your hands open
They called you the worst
And you almost believed it
Because your heart was already so tired
You fought
For their future
For their peace
For your own mind
You were not perfect
But who is?
You were real
Therapy became your anchor
At last the pieces started to fit
You looked back
With eyes full of insight
With a heart full of regret and love
You kept giving
You kept hoping
Until you were blocked
Literally
Figuratively
Made invisible
And still you did not collapse
You wrote
You cried
You read
You learned how to keep standing
With broken legs
And a heart full of questions
Sometimes letting go feels like betrayal
As if love ends with distance
But love is also
Continuing to breathe
For yourself
So make yourself a cup
Rest your head for a moment
You are not the only one
You are the mother who stayed
Who dared to feel
Who never truly gave up ❤️
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