They discharged me from the hospital, warning my children I couldn’t live alone—I was about to learn a brutal lesson.
In a quiet village nestled in the Yorkshire Dales, where old stone cottages held the warmth of family memories, my life—once spent sacrificing everything for my children—turned to betrayal. My name is Margaret. I gave my all to my son and daughter, yet when I lay on that hospital bed, I discovered the bitter truth: the ones I lived for had turned away. That lesson shattered my heart but showed me who truly valued me.
Looking back, I ask myself: was I a good mother? Did my mistakes make them so cold? I raised them alone after my husband passed. My son, Thomas, was just three months old; my daughter, Emily, was five. I worked myself ragged, taking any odd job to put food on the table. I never let myself falter—I knew no one else would care for my family.
I gave them everything. Emily and Thomas got their education, graduated university, landed respectable careers. While my health held, I doted on my grandchildren—James, Emily’s boy, and Oliver, Thomas’s son. I bought them gifts, slipped them pocket money, fetched them from school, and took them in summers so their parents could rest. I did it gladly, believing my love would return to me one day.
Then everything changed. I fell ill and ended up in hospital. Emily visited just once; Thomas only called. After two weeks, the doctors sent me home, urging me to avoid stress. But the next day, my children dropped the boys off. James and Oliver, bursting with energy, demanded constant attention. Still weak, I struggled. Within two months, my legs gave out—I could barely rise from bed.
I rang Thomas, begging him to take me back to hospital. He was “too busy,” as always. Emily didn’t come either. Desperate, I called a cab. The doctors were alarmed—my body couldn’t cope. They ordered rest, but by morning, my legs failed completely. Panicked, I phoned Emily. Her reply was icy: “Call an ambulance.” They took me away again.
The doctors told my children I couldn’t live alone—I needed constant care. Emily and Thomas argued over who should take me in. It was humiliating, as if I were baggage to discard. Emily complained her two-bed flat was too small. Thomas snapped that his pregnant wife wouldn’t tolerate a mother-in-law. Their words cut like knives.
I couldn’t bear it. “Both of you—leave!” I cried, choking on tears. They walked out, abandoning me in that hospital room. I lay there weeping, wondering how the children I’d lived for could be so cruel. Had I raised such selfish souls? That night, I didn’t sleep, tormented by pain and loneliness.
In the morning, my neighbor Lucy came—a young single mum raising her daughter. She’d always checked on me, brought home-cooked meals, asked after my health. I broke down, pouring out my grief. Without hesitation, Lucy offered help. “If your own won’t care for you, I will,” she said. She made my lunch, brewed tea, and for the first time in ages, I felt warmth—not from family, but from kindness.
Now, Lucy looks after me. I give her half my pension for groceries and meals; the rest goes to bills. Relying on a stranger tears at my soul. My children barely call—especially after learning Lucy took me in. Their indifference is a knife in my back.
I never thought I’d end up unwanted in my old age. I poured all my love, all my strength into them, and they grew up ungrateful. Now, I want to leave my cottage to Lucy—she’s been more family than my own. But deep down, I still hope Emily and Thomas will wake up, come to me, hold me, say they’re sorry. That hope flickers, weak as a dying ember, but each day, betrayal snuffs it further. I’ve learned a hard lesson: the love you give isn’t always returned, and kindness can come from those you hardly know.
