She visited me at school and made the strangest request—she asked for my underwear. She’s my mother, but that? That was insane. I didn’t like it, not one bit. So, I protested.

“What do you need my underwear for?” I asked, disbelief thick in my voice.

“My man of God says I should bring it. It’s a direction,” she replied calmly, as if her words weren’t utterly absurd.

“Man of which God? Which direction?” I fired back, my irritation rising.

“Stop being so blasphemous! Don’t bring God’s wrath upon you,” she scolded, her tone sharp with reproach. That only made me angrier.

“Mum, if you’re looking for God’s blessings, just read your Bible! You’re always being scammed because you want these men to read the Bible for you!” I snapped.

What started as a visit quickly turned into a heated verbal battle. By the time she left, I was furious. The rest of my time in the boarding house was spent simmering in anger. I didn’t even want to go home during vacation. But when I finally did, she didn’t give me a moment’s peace.

She frustrated all of us—me, my siblings, and even my dad—insisting we follow her to church. Nobody budged. We went to the church we’d always gone to. But that didn’t stop her. She came home with more “directions” from her pastor. She would cook some of these directions. She would bathe in others. She planted some, chewed some—always something new, always bizarre. It was maddening.

Anything we talked to her about, she’d run straight to her pastor. It didn’t matter if it was personal, trivial, or important—she shared everything with him. When I left for college, I thought I’d get some peace, but she called me one day, telling me how sick she was. My siblings and I pulled money together to help her go to the hospital.

So, you can imagine my rage when I found out she had given our money to her pastor instead.

“If you won’t go to him,” she said defensively, “at least I can give your money to him so he prays for you guys.”

That was the day I realized I had to give up on her. She was never going to change.

I could have maintained a good relationship with her, but everything fell apart when my father fell seriously ill. He was too weak to do anything on his own. And what did she do? Her thing. She took him to the pastor instead of the hospital.

My sister was the first to lose it, and I followed right after. My brother, somehow, still showed her some grace. But I couldn’t forgive her. When we finally got our father to the hospital, the first thing I did was block her. I left home after that, determined not to see her again.

I still speak to my dad, but not to her. She’s clearly worshiping a God we don’t know, and it’s driving her mad. One day, maybe, we’ll talk again—when she finally gets her marbles together. Until then, I’ve had enough.