**Diary Entry**
Sometimes, the deepest pain doesn’t come from outside—it festers within, gnawing at your heart, drop by drop, eroding your soul. I’m not angry anymore; I’m just… weary. Quietly hurt. Not at my children, no. At myself. At how I raised them. Somewhere along the way, in the name of love, I mistook unconditional care for boundless indulgence. And now, I reap what I sowed.
Seven years ago, I buried my husband. We spent forty years together, and every moment was given to our family, to the children. We worked without weekends, without holidays, never sparing a thought for ourselves. All for them. For their future. We bought them flats, paid for their education, gave them everything they could ever dream of. When he passed, I wasn’t just alone—I was without my anchor. And now, two years into my pension, I sit in this cold flat, wondering how my own children, the ones I lived for, act as though I don’t exist.
My pension is a cruel joke. At least I managed to get council support for the bills, or the utilities would’ve been cut off long ago. Even so, it’s barely enough for medicine, food, the simplest things. I’ve asked my children for help—nothing much, just something. But my son scoffed, *”What do you need money for?”* My daughter sighed, *”We’re struggling ourselves.”*
Struggling? Yet they go on holidays, buy new clothes, drive nice cars. Her wardrobe’s bursting with designer labels, and her seven-year-old gets fifty pounds a month for pocket money. Fifty pounds—that would cover my medicine, groceries. But she *”can’t afford it.”* How? When I hear that, my chest tightens. I’ve worn the same boots for years—worn through, leaking. But I stay silent. Ashamed. And I won’t ask again. Because it’s not just help—it’s humiliation.
I look at my friends, my neighbours. Their children bring them shopping, pay their bills, take them in during winter. But me? It’s like I’m invisible. The bitterest part? I taught them this. My sister and I supported our parents—money, food, time—without a second thought. With love. And mine? Mine turned away. It’s not just pain. It’s emptiness.
Once, I suggested moving in with my daughter for a year, renting out my flat for extra income. They’ve the space. She wouldn’t even hear it. *”Just rent out a room and live in the other,”* she said. So living with strangers is fine—but your own mother? Even now, I don’t understand where I went wrong. What choice broke us?
Every day now is survival. Stretching pennies till month’s end. Praying I don’t fall ill. Fighting the loneliness. My husband and I gave them everything—every penny, every ounce of strength. And now? I linger on the edges of their lives. Quiet. Resigned. Still clinging to the hope that one day, they’ll remember they have a mother. Not when I’m gone. Now.
But perhaps hope is all I have left.
**Lesson learned:** Love shouldn’t mean self-erasure. If you don’t teach them to see you, they’ll forget you’re there.
