The mother is all-powerful to start with; she is your survival. You fall over: Mummy, Mummy, make it better. She does. You put her on a pedestal. But she cannot live up to this for ever; you see that she has feet of clay after all; you are disappointed.
Contrary to the romantically high expectations as nurtured by wider society, there is no such thing as a perfect mother, nor a perfect daughter, nor yet a perfect relationship between them. Some – most? – women eventually realise this, allowances are made and gratitude for what there is takes precedence over fury for what there is not.