I’m angry at myself for how I raised my children.
Sometimes, pain doesn’t come from outside—it lives within, eating away at the heart, corroding the soul drop by drop. I haven’t been angry in a long time—just worn out. Quietly hurt. Not at my children, no… at myself. At how I raised them. Somewhere along the way, my motherly love got twisted into endless indulgence, and now I’m reaping what I sowed.
Seven years ago, I buried my husband. We’d been together forty years, and every moment was given to the family, to the children. We worked without holidays, without weekends, without a thought for ourselves—all for them. For their future. We bought them flats, paid for their education, gave them every luxury we could. And when he passed, I wasn’t just alone—I was left without support. Now, two years into my retirement, I sit in a cold flat, wondering how it came to this—how the children I lived for barely notice I exist.
My pension is a bitter joke. Thank goodness for the housing subsidy, or they’d have cut the power long ago. Even so, there’s never enough for medicine, for groceries, for the simplest things. I’ve asked my children—not for much, just a little help. But my son says, *”What do you need money for?”* My daughter says, *”We’ve got our own struggles.”*
Struggles? Yet they go on holidays, buy new cars, designer clothes. My granddaughter, just seven, gets two hundred quid a month for pocket money—that alone could cover my medicine. But no, my daughter *”can’t manage it.”* How? When I hear that, my chest tightens. I’ve worn the same shoes for years—worn through, leaking. But I stay silent. Too ashamed to beg again. It’s humiliating.
I see my friends, my neighbours—their children help. Bring food, pay bills, take them in during winter. But me? Like I don’t exist. The worst part is—I taught them this. My sister and I looked after our parents without complaint—money, food, time, all given freely. With love. But my children? Mine turned away. And it’s not just pain—it’s emptiness.
Once, I asked my daughter—let me move in for a year, rent out my flat, at least have some income. Their house is big enough. She wouldn’t even hear it. *”Just rent a room and stay in the other,”* she said. So living with strangers is fine, but not your own mother? I still don’t understand where I went wrong.
Now every day is survival. Stretching pennies till payday. Praying I don’t fall ill. Trying not to crumble from loneliness. My husband and I gave them everything—every penny, every drop of effort. And now? I’m on the edge of their lives. Silent. Resigned. Still hoping, deep down, that maybe one day they’ll remember they have a mother. Not when I’m gone—now.
But I suppose hope is all I’ve got left.
