Right, here’s the story, but I’ve given it a proper English flavour—names, places, the lot. Even the tone’s a bit more casual, like we’re having a cuppa and a chat.
—
I’m 70 now. Lonely as a Sunday without roast dinner. A burden to my own daughter.
*”Love, could you pop round tonight? I’m struggling a bit on my own…”*
*”Mum, I’m up to my eyeballs in work! Stop whinging. Fine, I’ll come.”*
I stood there clutching the phone, tears rolling down my cheeks. Hurt. Angry. Realising—I’d become a nuisance to my only child. I remembered raising Emily alone, doing everything for her. Never said no. Gave her the best of everything. Maybe that was my mistake. Spoiled her rotten, loved her too much, believed if she was happy, I would be too.
When Emily was eleven, a man came into my life. For the first time in years, I felt like a woman. But Emily threw such a fit, I had to end it. My heart screamed, but I chose her. Always chose her. And now? Now I’m 70. Alone. Ill. No strength left. And the one person I depended on—my daughter—brushes me off like a fly at a picnic.
Emily’s been married 20 years. Three kids, but I hardly see them. Why? Dunno. Maybe they’ve heard I’m a “nuisance” too.
*”Mum, what now?”* Emily barged in, scowling.
*”They’ve put me on injections… You’re a nurse, love, could you help?”*
*”What, trek over here every day? Are you having a laugh?”*
*”Emily, it’s icy out—I can’t make it to the surgery—”*
*”Well, pay me then! No one does this for free!”*
*”I haven’t got the money—”*
*”Brilliant! Ask someone else!”* The door slammed.
Next morning, I left two hours early—shuffling down the snowy pavement, gripping my referral, whispering, *”Just get there, you’ll manage.”* Tears fell anyway. From the pain. The loneliness. From words I’d never forget: *”You’re a burden.”*
At the surgery, a young woman stopped me. *”Let her through! Are you alright, love? You’re crying!”*
*”No, pet. Not from pain. From life.”*
She sat with me, listened. I told her everything. Oddly, it was easier talking to a stranger than my own daughter. Her name was Sophie. Lived a few streets over. After that, she dropped by often. Brought shopping, sorted my meds. Just listened.
On my birthday, Sophie came alone. Emily didn’t even call.
*”Had to see you,”* Sophie said. *”You remind me of my mum. Feels like home with you.”*
And I realised—a stranger had given me more than the one I’d raised with my heart.
We grew close. Sophie took me to her cottage, celebrated holidays, drove me out to the countryside. Finally, I made a hard but honest choice—signed my flat over to her. She refused at first. *”I don’t want anything from you.”* But I insisted. She wasn’t after money—that was obvious. She was just there. When no one else was.
Later, I moved in with her—couldn’t manage alone. Sold my flat so Emily couldn’t contest it. Thought that was the end of it.
A year later, Emily turned up. Fuming. Cold.
*”You gave your home to a stranger! Made me a laughingstock! It should’ve been mine! You should’ve died first!”*
Sophie’s husband kicked her out before she could yell at me again.
So there you go. Strangers turned out kinder than family. Sophie became my daughter. The one I carried under my heart? Betrayed me. When things got hard, she walked away. Too busy. I was “in the way.”
A mother’s love isn’t an investment. Not an asset. Just a feeling. And these days? Feelings don’t pay the bills.
