Running from Her Shadow: My Last Wish for Peace

“Why are you always so distant, Emily? Why can’t you just talk to me?” Mom’s voice cut through the silence like shattered glass. It was 11:07 PM. I was curled up on the edge of my twin bed, clutching my phone, trying to breathe past the lump in my throat. Her words echoed through the thin walls of our tiny apartment in Cleveland, each syllable heavy with accusation and hurt.

I remember when summer meant freedom. When I was eight, Mom and Dad would take me to Lake Erie. We’d spread a faded blanket on the sand, Dad would fire up the little charcoal grill, and Mom would actually laugh. I’d build sandcastles, run along the shore, and feel safe. But those days are gone. Dad left when I was twelve. After that, Mom’s laughter disappeared, replaced by a restless energy that wore us both thin. She became obsessed with everything—my grades, my friends, my clothes, even the way I chewed my food.

“I’m not distant, Mom,” I tried to say, but my voice was barely a whisper. What was the point? Every conversation turned into a battle. She’d pace the hallway, biting her nails until they bled. If I closed my bedroom door, she’d knock until I opened it. If I left the house, she’d call every ten minutes, demanding to know where I was, who I was with, what time I’d be home.

My friends never understood. “Just ignore her,” Jessica said once, rolling her eyes. But they didn’t see the way Mom’s anxiety filled every room, or how she’d cry for hours if I snapped at her. They didn’t see her panic attacks, or the way she’d collapse on the couch, hands trembling, begging me not to leave her.

By the time I was sixteen, I knew what it meant to be tired in my bones. I got a job at the local library, stayed late every night, just to avoid going home. Sometimes, I’d sit in my car outside the 24-hour diner and watch the neon lights flicker. I dreamed about running away—about boarding a Greyhound bus and disappearing somewhere warm, somewhere quiet, somewhere she couldn’t find me.

But every time I tried to break free, she pulled me back. “I need you, Emily. You’re all I have left.” Her words wrapped around my neck like a scarf, tightening every time I tried to breathe.

College was supposed to be my escape. I got accepted to Ohio State, two hours away. I packed my bags, hugged her goodbye, and swore I’d call every day. But she called me first, morning and night, sometimes sobbing, sometimes furious. My grades slipped. I stopped going to class. After one semester, I dropped out and moved back in, too ashamed to tell anyone the truth.

Now, at twenty-four, I’m still here. Still sharing a bathroom with my mother, still tiptoeing around her moods. I work at a bookstore downtown, stacking shelves and inhaling the smell of paper and ink. Sometimes, I imagine a different life—one where I live alone, maybe with a cat, where no one waits up for me, no one asks if I love them enough.

Last night, we fought again. She accused me of hiding things from her, of wanting to leave her the way Dad did. I shouted back, something I almost never do. “I’m not Dad! You can’t keep me trapped here forever!” She burst into tears, and I stormed out, slamming the door so hard the picture frames rattled.

I sat on the stoop, shivering in the April night, the city humming around me. I texted Jessica: “Sometimes I wish I could just disappear.” She called immediately, her voice warm and steady. “You can, Em. You’re allowed to want more.”

But wanting more feels selfish. Mom has no one else. Her own family stopped talking to her years ago. Sometimes I wonder if she’s always been like this, or if something broke inside her when Dad left. I see the pain in her eyes, the panic when she thinks I’m pulling away. I want to hate her, but I can’t. I just want to breathe.

This morning, she made pancakes—my favorite, with blueberries and too much syrup. She set the plate in front of me, her hands trembling. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just get scared sometimes.”

I wanted to reach for her, to tell her it’s okay. But the words caught in my throat. I stared at the pancakes, the syrup pooling like tears on the plate. I wondered what it would feel like to taste freedom—guiltless, sweet, and warm.

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll look for apartments. Maybe next week, I’ll tell her I need space. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll buy a bus ticket to somewhere she can’t follow. I don’t know if I’ll ever really escape her shadow, or if it’s become a part of me, stitched into my skin.

But I do know this: I want to live. Not just survive. I want to laugh again, like I did when I was a child, running along the shore, the sun on my face.

Do you ever wonder if loving someone means letting them go, even if it breaks your heart? Or is it possible to save yourself without leaving someone else behind?