“I pay for everything my mum does”—those words sent chills down my spine. I still can’t forget that day when I read the message from my son that made my blood run cold. My life in our family home in Manchester turned upside down, and the pain from his words still echoes in my heart.
Years ago, my son Thomas and his wife Natalie moved into my house 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, then second, then third child. When she couldn’t manage, I took sick leave to look after my grandkids. The house became a whirlwind of chores—cooking, cleaning, laughter, and tears. There was no time to rest, but I accepted the chaos.
I waited for my pension like it was salvation, counting down the days, dreaming of peace. But that calm only lasted six months. Every morning, I’d drive Thomas and Natalie to work, make the kids breakfast, feed them, drop them at nursery and school. With the youngest, we’d stroll in the park, then head home to cook lunch, do laundry, and clean. Evenings were spent ferrying the kids to piano lessons.
My days were packed, but I squeezed in time for my hobbies—reading and knitting. They were my escape, my little patch of quiet in the storm. Then, one day, I got a message from Thomas. When I read it, I froze, unable to believe my eyes.
At first, I thought it was some cruel joke. Later, Thomas admitted he’d sent it by mistake—not meant for me. But it was too late. His words scorched my soul: *”I pay for everything my mum does, and we even spend money on her medicines.”* I told him I forgave him, but I couldn’t live under the same roof anymore.
How could he say that? I put every penny of my pension toward our shared expenses. Most of my prescriptions were free because I’m retired. But his words showed me how he really saw me. I stayed silent—no shouting, no drama. Instead, I rented a tiny flat and left, telling them living alone would be easier.
Rent swallowed almost my entire pension. I barely had anything left, but asking Thomas for help wasn’t an option. Before retiring, I’d bought a laptop, despite Natalie saying I’d *”never figure it out.”* But I did. My friend’s daughter taught me the basics.
I started photographing my knitting and posting it online. Asked old coworkers to recommend me. A week later, my hobby brought in my first earnings. Small amounts, but enough to prove I wouldn’t starve—or beg my son for help.
A month later, my neighbor asked if I’d teach her granddaughter to knit and sew for pay. The girl became my first student. Soon, two more joined. Their parents paid well, and slowly, life improved.
But the wound in my heart hasn’t healed. I hardly speak to Thomas’ family now. We only see each other at…
