**Diary Entry**
I always believed I’d support my children while I had the strength, trusting they’d be there for me in my old age. Yet nothing hurts more than realising how wrong I was. When my grandchildren were young, I’d hear, “Mum, we need you so much!” Now they’ve grown, and I’ve become unnecessary—hardly a phone call, just cold silence and emptiness.
I have two grown children, my daughter Emily and my son Thomas. Their father and I split when they were in school. He found another woman, she fell pregnant, and off he went. At first, he still saw Emily, but Thomas, once he learned the truth, refused to speak to him. Soon after, his father moved to Manchester with his new family, and all contact was lost. Child support? Forget it. We stayed in our tiny flat on the outskirts of Leeds, 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. Navigating their teenage years alone, I’d often cry myself to sleep. But they grew up—smarter, both off to university, then building their own families. Emily married first; two years later, Thomas settled down. Neither ever lived with me—straight out, they began their own lives.
I did everything to support them. When the grandchildren arrived, my help was indispensable. I became their second mother: covering Emily’s maternity leave, collecting little Sophie from nursery, feeding her, helping with homework. I stepped in for my daughter-in-law too when her own mother couldn’t. If they wanted a holiday, the kids stayed with me. Never said no, even when I felt poorly. They were young—they deserved a break. I’d been a young mother once, with no one to lean on.
They used to call often, bring the grandchildren round. I’d visit too. That lasted until the kids grew older, and suddenly, I was obsolete. Now they walk to school alone, wrapped up in friends and screens. Time rushed by, leaving me behind. Financially, I couldn’t help—my pension barely covers the basics. The grandchildren lost interest, drawn to their gadgets. The calls and visits from my own children stopped.
At first, they’d visit occasionally, call now and then—then less and less. I began dialling their numbers just to ask how they were. Now? Only on holidays, a stiff “Happy Christmas,” then gone. A yearly visit, fleeting at best. I’m not getting younger—the housework’s a slog. Too proud to ask for help. Last winter, a pipe burst. I rang Thomas, begging him to come. He brushed me off: “Call a plumber, I’m busy.” Emily said the same—her husband was tied up.
In the end, my neighbour, a young lad whose flat I’d accidentally flooded, came over. He shut off the water, and his wife helped clean up. He even drove to the shop, bought what was needed, and fixed it himself. I tried to pay—it was my fault—but they refused. “Just knock if you need anything,” they said. Meanwhile, my own children never followed up to see if the problem was solved.
I’ve stopped calling. Won’t force myself where I’m not wanted. Last time they rang was New Year’s—a rushed greeting, no invitation. Two children, two grandchildren, and I’m utterly alone. We were taught family was everything—sacrifice for your children. Now I wonder: should I have lived for myself instead? Maybe then, old age wouldn’t taste so bitter. I gave them everything. In return? Silence. And that silence is breaking my heart.
**Lesson Learnt:** Devotion shouldn’t mean erasing yourself. Love your children, but never forget to tend your own soul—because one day, theirs may no longer have room for you.
