**Diary Entry – 14th June**
The doctors discharged me from hospital today, warning my children I couldn’t live alone. And so, life handed me a bitter lesson.
In a quiet Cornish village, where old cobblestone cottages hold the echoes of family laughter, my years of sacrifice unraveled into betrayal. I, Margaret, gave everything to my son and daughter—yet when I lay on that hospital bed, I learned the cruel truth: the ones I lived for had turned away. The pain shattered me, but it showed me who truly cares.
Looking back, I ask myself—was I a bad mother? Did my mistakes make them so cold? I raised them alone after losing my husband. My son, William, was barely three months old; my daughter, Emily, just five. I worked myself ragged—odd jobs, late shifts—anything to put food on the table. Never let myself falter, because who else would care for my family?
I gave them all I had. Emily and William got their degrees, landed good jobs in London. While my health held, I doted on my grandchildren—Oliver, Emily’s boy, and Henry, William’s son. Bought them toys, slipped them pocket money, fetched them from school. Summer holidays, they’d stay with me so their parents could relax. I did it gladly, believing love would come full circle.
Then everything changed. I fell ill, landed in hospital. Emily visited once; William just rang. Two weeks later, they discharged me, warning of stress and exhaustion. Yet the next day, my children dropped the boys at my doorstep. Oliver and Henry, bursting with energy, demanded constant attention. Weak as I was, I struggled—until my legs gave out two months later.
I begged William to take me back to hospital. “Too busy,” he muttered. Emily didn’t answer. Desperate, I hailed a cab. The doctors scolded me—my body couldn’t take the strain. Rest, they said. But by morning, my legs failed entirely. Panicked, I called Emily. “Ring an ambulance,” she snapped. Back to hospital I went.
The doctors told my children I couldn’t live alone—needed proper care. Emily and William argued over who’d take me, like I was some unwanted parcel. Emily moaned about her cramped flat; William shouted that his pregnant wife wouldn’t tolerate me. Their words cut deeper than any blade.
“Just go!” I screamed, choking on tears. They left without another word. I lay there, weeping, wondering how the children I’d bled for could be so heartless. Had I raised such selfish souls? That night, I barely slept, aching with loneliness.
Then came Sarah, my neighbour—a single mum raising her girl next door. She’d always checked on me, brought soups, asked after my health. This time, I broke down. Without hesitation, she offered help. “If your own won’t care for you, I will,” she said. She cooked, made tea, and for the first time in years, I felt warmth—not from blood, but kindness.
Now Sarah tends to me. I give her half my pension for groceries; the rest covers bills. Relying on a stranger gnaws at me, but what choice have I? My children barely call—especially since Sarah stepped in. Their indifference is a knife in the back.
Never thought I’d end up like this—discarded after a lifetime of love. I poured my soul into them, and they grew thankless. Now I’ll leave my cottage to Sarah—she’s earned it more than kin. Yet some foolish part of me still hopes Emily and William will walk in, wrap their arms around me, say they’re sorry. That hope flickers, but each day, betrayal snuffs it a little more.
Life’s cruel lesson? The love you give isn’t always returned—but kindness can come from the unlikeliest places.
— **Margaret Hargrove**
