“Mother lives at my expense”—those words chilled me to the bone.
To this day, I cannot forget that moment when I read the message from my son, the words turning my blood to ice. My life in my own flat in Manchester was turned upside down, and the ache of his betrayal still lingers in my heart.
Years ago, my son Thomas and his wife Natalie moved in with me right after their wedding. Together, we celebrated the births of their children, nursed them through illnesses, and cheered their first steps. Natalie was on maternity leave with their first child, then the second, then the third. When she couldn’t manage, I took sick days from work to care for my grandchildren. The house became a whirlwind of meals, laundry, children’s laughter and tears. There was no time to rest, yet I accepted it as the rhythm of my life.
I had waited for my pension as if it were salvation, counting the days, dreaming of peace. But the calm lasted only half a year. Every morning, I drove Thomas and Natalie to work, made the children breakfast, fed them, took them to nursery and school. With the youngest, I walked in the park, then returned to cook lunch, wash clothes, clean the house. In the evenings, I ferried the children to music lessons.
My days were measured in minutes. Yet I stole moments for myself—my books, my embroidery, my only refuge in the chaos. Then, one evening, Thomas’s message appeared. When I read it, my hands froze. At first, I thought it was some cruel joke. Later, he claimed he hadn’t meant to send it to me, but it was too late—his words had already burned into my soul: *”Mum lives at my expense, and we’re spending on her medicines too.”* I told him I forgave him, but I could no longer live under his roof.
How could he write such a thing? Every penny of my pension went to the household. Most of my prescriptions were free for pensioners. But his words laid bare his true feelings. I didn’t shout, didn’t argue. Instead, I rented a small flat and left, saying it would be easier for me to live alone.
The rent devoured nearly all my pension. I was left with almost nothing, but I refused to ask Thomas for help. Before retiring, I had bought a laptop despite Natalie’s warnings that I’d “never manage.” But I did. A friend’s daughter taught me how to use it.
I began photographing my embroidery and sharing it online. Old colleagues recommended my work. Within a week, my hobby brought in my first earnings—modest, yes, but enough to know I wouldn’t starve, wouldn’t beg.
A month later, a neighbour asked if I would teach her granddaughter to sew. The girl became my first pupil. Soon, two more followed. Their parents paid well, and slowly, life began to mend.
Yet the wound remains. I hardly speak to Thomas’s family now. We meet only on rare occasions.
