**Diary Entry**
I always believed I’d help my children for as long as I could, and in return, they’d be there for me in my old age. How painfully wrong I was. When my grandchildren were little, I’d hear, “Mum, we need you so much!” Now they’ve grown, and I’ve become unnecessary. Even a phone call is too much to ask—just cold silence and emptiness.
I have two grown children—a daughter, Emily, and a son, Thomas. Their father and I split when they were in secondary school. He found another woman, she got pregnant, and he left us for her. At first, he still saw Emily, but when Thomas learned the truth, he refused to speak to him. Eventually, his father moved to another city with his new family, and all contact faded. Child support was out of the question. We stayed in our small flat on the outskirts of Manchester, and I raised them alone.
My parents and brother helped where they could, but it was still a struggle. Thomas was fifteen, Emily twelve, when we divorced. I weathered their teenage years on my own, often crying myself to sleep. But they grew up, wiser, went to university, and started their own families. Emily married first; two years later, Thomas did the same. They never lived with me—straight away, they built their own lives.
I did everything to support them. My help was especially needed when the grandchildren came. I became their second mum: I stepped in while Emily was on maternity leave, took my granddaughter to nursery, picked her up, fed her, helped with homework. I supported my daughter-in-law too when her own mother couldn’t. If they wanted a break, the grandchildren stayed with me. I never said no, even when I felt unwell. I understood—they were young, they needed time off. I’d been a young mother too, but no one had helped me.
They used to call often, bring the grandchildren over, and I’d visit them. That was before the children grew older and I became obsolete. Now they go to school on their own, lost in their interests, their own lives. Time flew too fast, and I was left behind. I couldn’t help financially—my pension barely covered my expenses. The grandchildren preferred friends and screens to spending time with me. And then the calls and visits stopped.
At first, they still came by, phoned occasionally, but less and less. I had to dial their numbers myself just to ask how they were. Now it’s just a stiff holiday greeting, a quick visit once a year. I’m not getting younger—cleaning alone is hard. I need help but feel ashamed to ask. Last year, a pipe burst. I rang Thomas, begged him to come, but he brushed me off: “Call a plumber, I don’t have time.” Emily said the same, insisting her husband was too busy.
It was my neighbour, a young man whose flat I’d accidentally flooded, who helped. He turned off the water, and his wife helped clean up. Then he went to the shop himself, bought what was needed, and fixed the pipe. I tried to pay them—it was my fault—but they refused. “We’ll always help if you need it,” they said. My own children never even called back to check if the problem was solved. I’ve decided not to ring them anymore. I won’t force myself where I’m not wanted. The last time they rang was at Christmas—a quick “Happy New Year” before hanging up. They didn’t even invite me over.
I have two children and two grandchildren, yet I’m completely alone. We were taught that the greatest purpose was to devote ourselves to our children. Now, I wonder—should I have lived for myself instead? Maybe then old age wouldn’t taste so bitter. I gave them everything, and in return, I got silence. And that silence is tearing my heart apart.
