All sewn up: The perils of returning to live with your parents….

So, roll back a few years and I was in what I thought was a long-term relationship, trying for a baby and doing up a property with someone who I thought was the love of my life, when things took a dramatic turn. I won’t bore you with all the details and we can all remember the heartache that only a relationship split can bring, so suffice to say there I was, aged 39 ½ standing in some very ill-fitting jeans (being dumped is literally the best diet as all girls know) watching my entire life being loaded into a van, knowing in a couple of hours I would be back in the mother ship – literally. 

Now, whatever the relationship you have with your parents (my dad died a few years ago) let me tell you arriving back home with all your belongings is one of the most demoralising things one can do.  Your parents’ home is where you pop in for a familiar roast dinner or the home you arrive at when you receive an SOS about their emails going wrong… it is not supposed to be the place where you try and fit all your designer shoes into the half-wardrobe you have been allocated. 

I class myself as an independent woman; I run my own company, I know my own mind, I have a great group of girlfriends – but going back to living with your parents? Let me tell you, it changes everything. 

Suddenly my mum was questioning me about everything…… Do you need that last glass of wine? Do you think your hair should be like that for your meeting? What time will you be home? What is Keenwarr (Quinoa) It went on for months. 

Until literally the worst thing ever happened…

I get in from work, and my mother greets me at the door with what I can only describe as the worse resting bitch face I have ever seen. She is angry, upset and clearly on the war path. I’m thinking: Does she know I drank her gin whilst reminiscing about my ex? Or: Did she find the receipt for those shoes I bought just because I like the colour red? Or: Maybe I’ve eaten something in fridge and not replaced it? I was grabbing at straws. 

My mum was relentless. She tore through me like a machine. She was fuming.Her rant included: She brought me up better, if she knew I was that poor, I should have told her, she is disgusted with my behaviour, and, (ominously) she has fixed it… 

I was so confused. 

“Mum,” I say, “I genuinely don’t know what you are talking about…” 

And she said, “I was doing your washing and I found these…” 

At this point, can I tell you girls, she is holding up a pair of silk Agent Provocateur £150-pound vintage lemon lace crotchless pants – which I adored, and by the way had served me well! 

My mum continued, “I am mortified that you spend your money on going out, but wear pants with holes in. So this afternoon, do you know what I have had to do? I’ve had to sit here and darn you a new crotch for these pants!”

And that, ladies, is when I knew I needed to move out…. 

by Lizzie Liebenhals 

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