“My mother lives off me” — those words sent a chill through my bones. Even now, I can’t forget that day when I read the message from my son that turned my blood to ice. My life in our family flat in Manchester was turned upside down, and the sting of his words still echoes in my heart.
Years ago, my son Ethan and his wife Charlotte 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. Charlotte was on maternity leave with the first, then the second, then the third. When she couldn’t manage, I took sick days to look after my grandchildren. The house became a whirlwind of chores—cooking, cleaning, children’s laughter and tears. There was no time to rest, and I accepted the chaos as my lot.
I counted down the days to my pension like a prisoner awaiting release. But the peace I dreamed of lasted only six months. Every morning, I drove Ethan and Charlotte to work, made the children breakfast, fed them, took them to nursery and school. With the youngest, I walked in the park, then returned home to cook lunch, do the washing, tidy up. In the evenings, I ferried the children to music lessons.
My days were mapped in minutes. Yet I stole moments for my escape—reading and embroidery, my tiny island of calm in the storm. Then, one day, Ethan’s message arrived. Reading it, I froze, unable to believe my eyes.
At first, I thought it was some cruel joke. Later, he admitted he’d sent it by mistake, not meant for me. But it was too late—his words scorched my soul: “My mother lives off me, and we’re still paying for her medication.” I told him I forgave him, but I couldn’t stay under the same roof.
How could he write that? Every penny of my pension went to the household. Most of my prescriptions were free for pensioners. But his words laid bare the truth—what he really thought of me. I stayed silent, refused to make a scene. Instead, I rented a tiny flat and left, claiming it was easier to live alone.
The rent swallowed nearly all my pension. I was left with almost nothing, but I wouldn’t ask Ethan for help. Before retiring, I’d bought a laptop, despite Charlotte’s warnings that I’d “never manage.” But I did. My friend’s daughter taught me how to use it.
I began photographing my embroidery and sharing it online. Old colleagues spread the word. Within a week, my hobby brought in the first trickle of money—small sums, but enough to prove I wouldn’t starve or beg at my son’s door.
A month later, a neighbour asked if I’d teach her granddaughter to sew. The girl became my first pupil. Soon, two more joined her. Their parents paid well, and slowly, life began to mend.
But the wound in my heart hasn’t healed. I barely speak to Ethan’s family now.
