Silent Ache: A Daughter’s Struggle for Her Mother’s Approval

“You never think, Emily. Never. I don’t know how you expect to manage anything if you can’t even remember to pick up your daughter on time.”

My mother’s voice cuts through me like glass, and I taste the metallic tang of shame before I can even respond. The kitchen is too bright, the clock ticks too loud, and my twelve-year-old daughter, Lucy, looks down at her cereal, pretending she can’t hear us. I’m forty-one, married, a mother of two, a project manager at a bustling Chicago firm, and yet in this moment, I am twelve years old again, trembling and desperate for her approval.

“Mom, I said I was sorry. The meeting ran late. Lucy was safe with Mrs. Carter—”

She waves her hand, dismissing me as if I’m a nuisance. “Excuses, Emily. There’s always an excuse with you.”

I glance at my husband, Matt, who’s busying himself with the newspaper, shoulders hunched. He hates confrontation, especially with my mother, Susan. She visits every Sunday, and every Sunday feels like we’re picking at a scab that never heals.

As a kid, I believed if I just tried harder, worked harder, she’d see me. That she’d be proud. I’d bring home A’s, trophies, perfect report cards—she’d glance at them, maybe a nod, but never a smile. Praise was for other people’s kids; I was supposed to do well. That was the minimum.

Now, as an adult, I’m haunted by the same hunger. I live in a tidy, sunlit house in Evanston, with a dog and a mortgage and a minivan that smells like soccer cleats and apple juice. I juggle meetings, Matt’s late shifts, PTA emails, and my mother’s icy scrutiny. And still, I feel like I’m failing at all of it.

Later that night, Lucy crawls onto my bed. “Why is Grandma always mad at you?” she whispers. The question lands heavy in my chest. I stroke her hair and search for words that won’t make her afraid of turning into me.

“She loves us. She just… doesn’t know how to show it.”

Lucy bites her lip. “I don’t want you to be sad.”

I smile, or try to. “I’m not sad, honey. Just tired.”

But I am sad. I’m sad for the little girl I used to be, for the woman I’ve become, and for the possibility that Lucy might inherit this ache. I want to break the cycle, but I don’t know how.

The next Sunday, Susan arrives with criticism tucked in her purse, ready to hand out like hard candies. She inspects the kitchen. “You still haven’t fixed that cupboard. I told you it’s dangerous. You really should listen to me, Emily.”

Matt takes the kids to the park. It’s just her and me.

“Why do you always do that?” I ask, my voice trembling. “Why can’t you just say something nice?”

She looks at me, startled. For a moment, I see a flicker of something—regret?—in her eyes. But it’s gone. “You’re too sensitive. I’m just trying to help you do better.”

I feel the old anger, hot and prickly. “But I’m doing my best. Why isn’t it ever enough for you?”

She sighs, sits down, suddenly looking older. “Mothers aren’t supposed to coddle. My mother never did. You don’t get anywhere in life being soft.”

I think about her stories—how her own mother, my grandmother, was raised during the Depression, how nothing was ever given, everything had to be earned. I wonder what Susan wanted from her mother, and if she ever got it.

After she leaves, I sit at the kitchen table and stare at the chipped mug in my hands. The ache in my chest is familiar, but something shifts. Maybe I can’t change her. Maybe I can only change how I carry her voice inside me. Maybe that’s how I help Lucy, too—by offering her what I always wanted.

That night, I tuck Lucy in and brush her bangs from her forehead. “I’m proud of you,” I whisper. “I love you, no matter what.”

Her eyes flutter shut, peaceful.

Alone, I write a letter to my mother I’ll never send. I pour out everything: the longing, the wounds, the hope that someday she’ll see me—not as a project to fix, but as a daughter to love.

Isn’t that what we all want? To be seen, to be loved as we are? I wonder—how many other daughters are out there, still waiting for their mother’s approval? And what would it take for us to finally let ourselves be enough?