*”Mum lives off my money”*those words chilled me to the bone. *”Mums a burden on my back”*that phrase left me frozen. Even now, I cant forget the day I read my sons message, which turned my blood to ice. My life in the London flat was turned upside down, and the sting of his words still echoes in my heart.
Years ago, my son Oliver and his wife, Charlotte, moved in with me right after their wedding. We celebrated the births of their children together, weathered illnesses, and cheered first steps. Charlotte took maternity leave with their first child, then the second and third. When she couldnt manage, I took sick leave from work to care for my grandchildren. The house became a whirlwind of chores: cooking, cleaning, laughter, and childrens tears. There was no time to rest, but I grew used to the chaos.
I waited for my pension like a lifeline, counting the days on the calendar, dreaming of peace. But the harmony lasted only six months. Every morning, I drove Oliver and Charlotte to work, made breakfast for the grandchildren, fed them, took them to nursery and school. With the youngest, I strolled in the park, then returned home to cook lunch, wash up, and tidy. In the evenings, I ferried them to music lessons.
My days were minutely planned, yet I still carved out moments for my passionreading and embroidery. It was my refuge, a quiet corner in the storm. Then one day, a message from Oliver stopped me dead in my tracks.
At first, I thought it was a cruel joke. Later, Oliver admitted hed sent it by mistake, not for me. But it was too latehis words seared my soul: *”Mums a burden on my back, and were still spending money on her medicine.”* I told him I forgave him, but I couldnt live under the same roof anymore.
How could he write such a thing? Every penny of my pension went toward the household. Most of my medicine was free as a pensioner. Yet his words revealed his true feelings. I stayed silent, made no scene. Instead, I rented a tiny flat and moved out, saying Id be better off alone.
The rent swallowed almost my entire pension. I was left with barely enough, but I refused to ask Oliver for help. Before retiring, Id bought myself a laptop, despite Charlottes remark that *”youll never manage.”* But I did. A friends daughter taught me how to use it.
I began photographing my embroidery and posting it online. I asked former colleagues to recommend me. Within a week, my passion earned me my first moneymodest sums, but enough to prove I wouldnt disappear or humiliate 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 student. Soon, two more joined. The parents paid generously, and slowly, my life began to steady.
But the wound in my heart hasnt healed. I hardly speak to Olivers family now. We meet only at gatherings.
**Some burdens arent carried on the backtheyre carved into the heart. And sometimes, walking away is the only way to keep standing.**
