The bitterness rests heavily on my heart, not at my children—no—but at myself for how I raised them.
Sometimes pain doesn’t come from the outside. It festers within, gnawing away bit by bit, like water wearing down stone. I’m no longer angry—just weary. Quietly, I resent myself. For how I brought them up. For mistaking boundless love for endless indulgence. Now, I reap what I’ve sown.
Seven years ago, I buried my husband. We were together forty years, every moment devoted to our family, to the children. We worked without weekends, without holidays, never pausing for ourselves. Everything—for them. For their futures. We bought them flats, paid their university fees, gave them every luxury they dreamed of. And when my husband passed, I didn’t just lose him—I lost my foundation. Now, two years into my retirement, I sit in a cold flat and wonder how it came to this. My own children—the ones I lived for—barely acknowledge me.
My pension is a cruel joke. If I hadn’t claimed housing benefit, they’d have cut my electricity long ago. Even then, it barely covers medicine, food, the simplest necessities. I’ve asked my children for help—not much, just a little. My son sneered, “What do you need money for?” My daughter sighed, “We’ve got our own struggles.”
Struggles? And yet they holiday abroad, buy new clothes, new cars. My daughter’s wardrobe overflows with designer labels, and her seven-year-old gets two hundred pounds a month in pocket money. That two hundred could buy my pills, my groceries. But no—she insists she hasn’t got it. How? My chest tightens every time. I’ve worn the same boots for years—worn through, letting in rain—but I stay silent. Ashamed. I won’t beg again. Not when it only brings humiliation.
I see my friends, my neighbours. Their children help—bring food, pay bills, take them in during winter. Me? I might as well be alone. The bitterest pill? I taught them this. My sister and I always helped our parents—money, food, time—never begrudgingly. With love. But my children? They’ve turned away. It’s not just pain. It’s a hollow, endless silence.
Once, I suggested moving in with my daughter—just for a year—renting out my flat for extra income. Their place is big enough. She refused outright. “Just let out a room and live in the other,” she said. So, strangers are welcome. But her own mother? I still don’t understand where I went wrong.
Now, every day is survival. Stretching pennies till payday. Praying illness doesn’t strike. Enduring the loneliness. My husband and I gave them everything—every penny, every drop of strength. And now? I linger on the edges of their lives. Quiet. Resigned. Somewhere inside, hope still flickers—that maybe, one day, they’ll remember they have a mother. Not when I’m gone. Now.
But perhaps hope is all I have left.
