My name is Margaret, Im sixty-eight years old, and for most of my life I believed Id given my children the very best I was capable of. Today, they dont see it that way. I was a single mother, though never by choice. My husband left one ordinary day and never returned. There were no goodbyes, no explanations. He simply vanished, leaving me to raise our children by myself. Later, gossip trickled in and I pieced it togetherhed gone off with another woman. I never heard it from his lips, as he never returned to face his children or me again. He disappeared from our lives as quietly as hed left.
Back then, my little ones were six and four. So small, so entirely dependent. I was on my own. No family to lean on. Id come from a poor, close-knit area in the Northone of those places you leave behind in hopes of a better future, only to find yourself untethered and without anyone to turn to when life unravels around you.
My children have never blamed me for not having food on the table or a roof over their heads. I did everything in my power to make sure they wanted for nothing essentialor, at least, thats what I tried to do. Instead, they blame me for what I couldnt give of myselfemotionally. I was a strict mother. Not out of cruelty, but out of fear. I had grown up believing love is shown through sacrifice, not words. Through discipline, not hugs or gentle caresses.
To feed us, I worked in a textile factory. I took the job because it allowed me to be home after lunch, to keep an eye on them, make sure theyd eaten, keep them safe. Then, when the sun set, Id head out selling pies and pasties door-to-door. Sleepless eyes, aching bones, but I was driven by necessity. With those double shifts, I managed to keep us afloat.
I worked far too much. Physically I was present, but emotionally I was absent more than I care to admit. There were days I came home exhausted, nerves frayed, patience worn thin. When they cried, I told them not to make a fuss. When they needed comfort, my replies were often commands. When theyd slip up, I corrected more than I ever consoled. I wasnt a warm mother. Dutiful, yes. But distant.
One season, everything fell apart. We lived in a tiny rented flatjust big enough for the three of us to sleep. No father, one wage. Money never stretched far enough. There were days I had to choosepay the rent or buy groceries. I always chose to feed my children. The rent payments fell behindmissed one, then another, until the day we were evicted. I remember that day with excruciating clarity, even now.
I had nowhere to go. With two young children and a few worn bags, we slept on the living room floor of a neighbours flat, grateful to at least be out of the cold. My children were too little to understand. But I understood it all: the shame, the desperation, the bone-deep weariness.
The neighbours, seeing how desperate we were, collected a bit of money and we managed to rent an even smaller room in a crumbling old terrace with a shared yard. It was cramped, but at least we were safe. My children remember shouting and arguments from those days, where for me the dominant memory is exhaustion. They recall distance, where for me it was survival. They remember fear, where I recall fighting to keep myself from falling apart.
But I raised them. Sent them to school. They graduated. Today, my children are educated, have families of their own, and look to the future with hope. As adults now, they see me differently. They ask why I never asked them how they felt. Why I didnt protect them when someone hurt them. Why it seemed everything else was always more important than them. You looked after us, Mum, but you never hugged us, one of them said to me once.
That phrase broke something inside me. Because it wasnt lack of loveit was lack of know-how. No one ever taught me how to love gently. I was raised to endure, not to feel.
Over the years, theyve grown distant. They dont visit much anymore. They have their own families, their own children, commitments piling up. Were busy, they say, and I know its true, but its not the whole story. One day, both of them separately saidwithout realising how much it would stingthat their wives are so different to me. More patient. More affectionate. More present with the children. They didnt mean it unkindly. They said it as plain truth. But I heard the silent judgement behind the words. It felt as though theyd chosen for their own children the things they missed in their childhood with me.
And I understoodthey dont just look at the mother I was back then. They compare me to the mothers who walk beside them now. Maybe its truelife wore me down, made me bitter, hardened me before my time. That fatigue still echoes in my voice, shows in the way I hold myself. My children are my judges now, armed with the words to describe what they silently swallowed as children.
Still, I listen, even when it hurts. Even when Im left to reckon with myself. Even when it makes me feel smaller than Ive ever felt. I dont write this as an excuse. Yes, I was a mother who didnt know how to show tenderness. Yes, I made mistakes. I finally see that now, even if its too late to put things right. But I also knowI did what I was capable of, with the woman I was then. I loved them as best I could. You cant give what youve never received.
Perhaps one day theyll see the full picturenot just my shortcomings, but the whole of me. Perhaps they wont. Being a mother doesnt mean being perfect. It means loving, even when you havent a clue how to do it well. And, though my children now look at me with the eyes of judges, I hope that God looks at me as a motherwith mercy, with truth, and a love that understands, and heals, instead of damns.
