My mother seeks love, while I drown in the endless demands of motherhood. My mother, Margaret Anne, has all but erased me and my children from her life. I struggle alone, torn between two little ones who need constant care, while she, their own grandmother, refuses to lift a finger. The ache gnaws at me, and I don’t know how to bear the loneliness and resentment.
Why does she act this way? I can’t fathom it. We grew distant when I left home at eighteen, moving from Manchester to start my own life. Since then, our conversations have dwindled to short, hollow phone calls. I’d hoped my children would bring us closer, but every time I ask her to visit or simply listen, she cuts me off: “Katie, I’ve got to go—things to do.” What could be more important than family?
She always insisted on raising me to be independent. As a girl, she drilled it into me: I must stand on my own two feet. But at eighteen, I was thrust into the world unprepared—hunting for work, renting a shoebox flat, counting every pence. I managed, but at what cost? Now that I’m a mother myself, I long for even a shred of her support. Yet she’s nowhere to be found.
Instead, her days are consumed by men. Like a schoolgirl, she flits from one date to the next, searching for “the one,” though she’s well past fifty. I don’t begrudge her happiness, but when it swallows all her time, I can’t stay silent. My children, her grandchildren, miss her. They ask why she never visits, and I have no answer. Every time, she conjures some excuse—too busy, too tired, or “meeting someone interesting.”
Finally, I snapped. After yet another refusal to come round, I rang her and spilled everything: “Mum, aren’t you ashamed? At your age, you ought to be with your grandchildren, not chasing after men!” She fired back, “I wasted my youth on you—worked myself to the bone, raised you alone! Now it’s my turn, Katie! Your children, your problem!” Her words stung like a slap. Yes, she sacrificed much, but does that mean she can turn her back on family now?
I watch her slipping away. These past two years, we’ve met barely once a month. She’s grown cold, distant. Even her voice has lost its warmth. I don’t ask her to give up her life for us—but is a weekly visit too much? To watch the children, play with them, give me a moment’s respite? I fear soon we’ll cease to be a family altogether.
How do I make her see that life isn’t just candlelit dinners and new suitors? That family—her own flesh and blood—is what truly matters? I’m tired of arguing, tired of feeling worthless. Sometimes I think: let her find her “prince,” let her have her happiness—maybe then she’ll remember us. But deep down, I dread that “maybe” will never come.
I don’t want to lose her. But how do I hold on when she’s the one pulling away? I’m drowning in responsibility, and she—she doesn’t seem to notice. Am I selfish? Or has she forgotten what it means to be a mother?
