**Diary Entry**
*”Mum lives off my money.”* Those words chilled me to the bone. Even now, I cant forget the day I read my sons messageit froze the blood in my veins. My life in our London flat turned upside down, and the pain of his words still echoes in my heart.
Years ago, my son Edward and his wife, Emily, moved in with me right after their wedding. We celebrated the births of their children together, weathered illnesses, and cheered their first steps. Emily was on maternity leave with their first, then second, then third child. When she couldnt manage, I took sick days to look after my grandchildren. The house became a whirlwind of cooking, cleaning, laughter, and tears. There was no rest, but I grew used to the chaos.
I counted down the days to my pension like a lifeline, dreaming of peace. But the calm lasted only six months. Every morning, Id drive Edward and Emily to work, make breakfast for the children, feed them, take them to nursery and school. With the youngest, Id stroll through the park before heading home to cook lunch, clean, and wash. Evenings were spent shuttling them to music lessons.
My days ran like clockwork. Still, I stole moments for my escapereading and embroidery. It was my refuge, a quiet corner in the storm. Then came Edwards message. When I read it, I stood frozen, unable to believe my eyes.
At first, I thought it was a cruel joke. Later, Edward admitted hed sent it by mistakeit wasnt meant for me. But the damage was done. His words scorched my soul: *”Mum lives off my back, and were still spending money on her prescriptions.”* I told him I forgave him, but I couldnt stay under the same roof.
How could he write that? Every penny of my pension went toward the household. Most of my medicine was free, thanks to my age. But his words laid bare his true feelings. I stayed silentno scenes, no shouting. Instead, I rented a tiny flat and left, saying Id be better off alone.
The rent swallowed nearly my entire pension. I had next to nothing left, but I refused to ask Edward for help. Before retiring, Id bought a laptop, despite Emilys scoffing that Id *”never manage.”* But I did. A friends daughter taught me the basics.
I started photographing my embroidery and posting it online. Old colleagues helped spread the word. Within a week, my hobby brought in my first earningsmodest, but enough to prove I wouldnt vanish or beg at my sons feet.
A month later, a neighbour asked if Id teach her granddaughter to sewfor a fee. The girl was my first student. Soon, two more joined. Their parents paid generously, and slowly, life began to right itself.
But the wound in my heart hasnt healed. I hardly speak to Edwards family now. We meet only at gatherings.
**Lesson:** Blood may tie us, but respect is earned. And sometimes, walking away is the only way to keep your dignity intact.
