My mother is searching for love, while I’m drowning in the responsibilities of raising my children.
My mother, Margaret Wilson, acts as though she’s erased me and my kids from her life. I’m left juggling two little ones who demand constant attention, while she, their own grandmother, won’t even lift a finger to help. The pain gnaws at me, and I don’t know how to handle this loneliness and resentment.
Why does she do this? I can’t find an answer. We grew apart when I moved out of our family home in Manchester at eighteen to start my own life. Since then, our conversations have been reduced to the occasional phone call. I hoped having children would bring us closer, but every time I ask her to visit or simply listen, she cuts me off after a few minutes: “Emily, I’ve got things to do.” What could possibly be more important than family? I don’t understand.
Mum always wanted me to be independent. When I was younger, she insisted I learn to stand on my own two feet. But at eighteen, when I left home, I had to claw my way through life—finding work, renting a tiny flat, counting every penny. I managed, but at what cost? Now that I’m a mother myself, I long for just a little support from her. But it’s nowhere to be found.
Instead, all her time is swallowed by men. She flits from one date to another like a teenager, searching for “the one,” though she’s well past fifty. I don’t begrudge her happiness, but when it consumes every spare moment, I can’t stay silent. My children, her grandchildren, miss her. They ask why she never visits, and I don’t know what to say. Each time, she has a new excuse—too busy, too tired, or “meeting someone interesting.”
Recently, I snapped. After yet another refusal to come over, I called her and poured out everything I’d been holding in: “Mum, aren’t you ashamed? At your age, you should be spending time with your grandkids, not chasing after men!” She fired back: “I wasted my whole youth on you, working nonstop to raise you alone! This is *my* time now, Emily! Your children are *your* responsibility, not mine!” Her words hit like a slap. Yes, she sacrificed a lot for me—but does that mean she gets to turn her back on family?
I can feel her slipping away. Over the last two years, we’ve seen each other barely once a month. She’s grown cold, distant. Even her voice has lost the warmth it once held. I’m not asking her to give up her life for us—but is it really so hard to visit once a week? To sit with the kids, play with them, give me just a couple of hours to breathe? I’m afraid soon we won’t even feel like family anymore.
How do I make her see that life isn’t just candlelit dinners and new admirers? That family—her own flesh and blood—is what truly matters? I’m tired of arguing, tired of feeling unwanted. Sometimes I wonder: maybe she should find her “prince,” sort out her love life, and *then* remember us? But deep down, I fear that “then” will never come.
I don’t want to lose my mum. But how do I hold on when she’s the one pushing me away? I’m drowning in the chaos of motherhood, and she doesn’t even seem to notice how much I’m struggling. Maybe I’m selfish. Or maybe she’s forgotten what it means to be a mother.
