My sister was the one who broke the news that our mother was dead. I’d missed a call from her and as I listened to her brief message: ‘Hi Danu, please call me,’ I knew instinctively that it would concern one of our elderly parents.

I rang back immediately and discovered our mother, Kate, who was in her 80s, had died during a routine operation in hospital. It was unexpected, but peaceful. I felt glad about that.

Our conversation was as brief as it was polite. I didn’t ask about funeral arrangements and she didn’t offer any details. I asked how she was and she said she was fine, as was our father.

But as I put the phone down, my hands shook.

My son David, 20, was at home and as I told him the news he hugged me. No tears came. I was in shock.

The woman who had loomed so large over my life was gone.

Danu Morrigan says her mother's cruelty was not violent, rather 'death by a thousand cuts' (picture posed by model)

A few hours later, a family friend called to offer her condolences. When she mentioned seeing me at the funeral, I told her firmly that I wouldn’t be going. She was stunned, perhaps assuming I would be full of regret if I didn’t say my goodbyes.

But I was resolute about not attending. How could I pretend we’d had a normal relationship when the opposite was true?

In the hours after that phone call, numbness gave way to relief. She was gone; it was finally over.

I felt anger, too. Now it was certain that she would never acknowledge how deeply she had scarred me. I felt an ache that we’d never get the chance to heal the wounds of the past.

Deep down, though, I also knew this would not have happened anyway. Her cruelty to me was not dramatic, or violent. Rather, it was death by a thousand cuts.

Over the years, she demeaned me, again and again, paying little heed to the direction of my life —there were no pep talks before job interviews, for example.

She never hugged me or showed affection, not even when I was little and in pain, or frightened.

Her neglect manifested itself in many ways, from taking such little care of my cleanliness and physical care when I was a young girl that I was often wearing the same vest for months until it was literally grey, with tidemarks of grime around my neck and ears; to my wedding day aged 26, when no praise passed her lips.

She chose to go on instead about having had to change her outfit to fit the colour scheme I’d painstakingly chosen.

On learning on her mother's death, Danu 'was certain that she would never acknowledge how deeply she had scarred me. I felt an ache that we’d never get the chance to heal the wounds of the past' (file photo)

My mother focused only on herself. She had an insatiable need for attention from others and no empathy for anyone else — even her own children. In short, she was a narcissist who never, ever showed me any love.

Mothers love their children; they’ll do anything for them. That’s what our culture tells us.

But mine never loved me and I often think my real bereavement began the day I came into the world 52 years ago, not the day she died.

I was born in Dublin, the eldest of four with one brother and two sisters. My mother worked in the civil service before she married but gave up when she had children, as women did then.

My father, Philip, also worked in the civil service and, although we were not well off, we owned our own home and there was always food on the table. He was kind. Any hugs or attention came from him. However, while my father is still alive, we’re also estranged as he defended my mother.

He was furious with me when I cut contact with her. I destroyed all the photos of her, erased her from my life — but I still regret losing him.

There were some good times, when my mother appeared perfectly pleasant. But the minute you disagreed with her about anything (even the ‘wrong’ political opinion), she’d strike.

I was only ever one word from her snapping viciously: ‘That’s enough!’ I had to be eternally on guard in her company.

My first memory of her criticising me was when I was just six. I was strutting playfully in front of a mirror when she said: ‘You’re starting to get fat — you want to watch that!’ It was the first of many derogatory comments about my body.

She made little effort to help me care for myself. Aged 12, I remember going to school in my slippers because my shoes were worn through.

As a teenager, the neglect and disinterest continued. I became desperately unhappy. Little wonder that I developed an eating disorder, forgoing breakfast and lunch but eating everything in sight for dinner, before vomiting violently.

My mother never mentioned it. Years later however, she told me with huge satisfaction: ‘Oh you thought you were fooling us, but we could all hear you throwing up.’ My abiding thought was: ‘So why didn’t you try to help me?’

There was no advice about schooling. No discussion of what I might do afterwards or guidance about how to be in the world; no chats about boyfriends, make-up or clothes. It was existing in an emotional vacuum.

Danu reflects on her relationship with her mother: 'There were some good times, when my mother appeared perfectly pleasant. But the minute you disagreed with her about anything (even the ‘wrong’ political opinion), she’d strike' (file photo)

Such was my misery I tried to commit suicide three weeks before my 17th birthday. The method I chose would never have worked, but I didn’t realise that — my attempt was genuine, and desperate. My parents found me in time but didn’t take me to hospital, nor discuss it.

A few days afterwards, I was on a trip with a friend, and kept praying our car would crash.

I still had no idea it was my mother’s behaviour causing my depression. How was I to know life could be any different?

I had no other relatives to speak to about how bad things were — tellingly, many of my cousins, aunts and uncles were also estranged from my mother.

My siblings and I would moan together about our parents, the way teenagers do, but I have no idea if their experience was worse or better than mine, and we’ve never discussed it since. Only my younger sister had remained in any kind of contact with her.

But it was becoming a mother myself which really opened my eyes to how cruel she had been.

I felt so much affection for my tiny son. I wanted to wrap him up in love. But it also proved to me what I’d missed with my own mother. She didn’t visit me. She only met my son when I visited her house — and then made no move to hold him. Even when I thrust him into her arms, she appeared disinterested.

We continued our relationship throughout my 30s and early 40s, in spite of the dread I felt with every visit.

My husband tolerated my mother’s behaviour because I asked him to. But each time we visited, I felt worn to breaking point.

I know where she’s buried, but I have no desire to visit her grave

I finally severed contact nine years ago. My parents invited us to a meal for their wedding anniversary and a friend Maggie, who was staying with us, came too, even though I’d tried to dissuade her (I’ve always kept friends at arm’s length from my mother).

After witnessing my mother first hand, she was shocked.

We were at the restaurant for two hours and 25 minutes and, apart from the moment we ordered, my mother talked incessantly about herself.

Neither of my parents spoke to my then 12-year-old son after the initial ‘hello’, despite him then being the only grandchild they were in touch with (they were estranged from the others).

They ignored my younger sister, and didn’t pay attention to my friend. No wonder she was appalled. Finally, someone had confirmed it wasn’t just me. And I knew, instantly, I didn’t want to see my parents again.

Maggie’s perspective gave me the permission I needed to cut all ties, so I sent a letter saying I didn’t want any kind of contact. ‘I don’t do this in anger,’ I wrote. ‘I do it in self-preservation. I wish you the very best.’

The relief was palpable. I could finally get on with my life.

I always knew I would eventually get the call to tell me mum was dead. But for me, she had already been gone a long time.

I know where she’s buried, but I have no desire to visit her grave. I haven’t resolved the question of whether or not I can forgive her. All I can say is I hope she rests in peace. I’m glad I’ve finally found some of my own.

Dear Daughter Of A Narcissistic Mother — 100 Letters To Help You Recover And Thrive is published by dltbooks.com at £9.99.

daughtersofnarcissisticmothers.com.