“Mother Lives Off My Money” those words chilled me to the bone. “Mother is a burden on my back” that was the message that froze my blood. Even now, I cannot forget the day I read those words from my son, a day that turned my life in my London flat upside down. The pain of his words still echoes in my heart.
Years ago, my son Edward and his wife, Margaret, moved in with me shortly after their wedding. We celebrated the births of their children together, weathered illnesses, and watched their first steps. Margaret was on maternity leave with their first, then their second, and finally their third child. When she couldnt manage, I took sick leave to care for my grandchildren. The house became a whirlwind of chorescooking, cleaning, laughter, and childrens tears. There was no time to rest, but I grew accustomed to the chaos.
I counted the days until my pension, dreaming of peace. But the respite lasted only half a year. Every morning, I drove Edward and Margaret to work, made breakfast for the grandchildren, fed them, took them to nursery and school. With the youngest, I strolled through the park before returning home to cook lunch, wash up, and tidy. In the evenings, I took them to music lessons.
My days were planned to the minute. Yet I still found moments for my passionreading and embroidery. It was my refuge, a small island of calm in the storm. Then came the day Edward sent me that message. When I read it, I stood rooted to the spot, unable to believe my eyes.
At first, I thought it a cruel joke. Later, Edward admitted it had been sent by mistake, not meant for me. But the damage was donehis words scorched my soul: “Mother lives off my back, and were still spending money on her medicines.” I told him I forgave him, but I could no longer live under the same roof.
How could he write such a thing? Every penny of my pension went toward household needs. Most of my medicines were free as a retiree. But his words revealed his true feelings. I stayed silent, made no scene. Instead, I rented a small flat and moved out, claiming solitude would suit me better.
The rent swallowed nearly my entire pension. I had little left, but I refused to ask Edward for help. Before retiring, Id bought myself a laptop, despite Margarets scoffing that Id “never manage.” But I did. A friends daughter taught me to use it.
I began photographing my embroidery and posting it online. Old colleagues spread the word. Within a week, my hobby brought in the first modest sums. It wasnt much, but it gave me hopeI wouldnt vanish, nor would I humble myself before my son.
A month later, a neighbour asked if Id teach her granddaughter to sew and embroiderfor a fee. The girl was my first pupil. Soon, two more joined. Their parents paid generously, and slowly, my life began to mend.
But the wound in my heart never healed. I scarcely speak to Edwards family now. We meet only at gatherings, where I smile and hold my tongue, though the memory of his words lingers, sharp as a needles prick.
